The small room at The Sleeping Feline became Elaraâs refuge. For days, she found a strange, quiet peace within its humble walls. The bed was simple, yet soft, a luxury she hadn't known since before arriving in this world. It felt gentle beneath her, a stark contrast to damp earth and abrasive tree branches. A constant ache in her body she hadnât realized was soothed. The inn itself hummed with a different rhythm than the Rusty Flagon. Here, the voices from the common room below were just a soft murmur, like a distant river, a lullaby to frayed nerves. The air carried the clean scent of woodsmoke and baked bread, not the sharp stench of stale ale and sweat that had tried to suffocate her.
Mornings brought simple, warm breakfasts: thick porridge, sometimes with a little honey, or rough brown bread with cheese. Each bite was a small victory, a testament to surviving another night. In the afternoons, she would sit by the window, watching the quiet street below. Farmers guided their carts, their calls low and rhythmic. Children, bright splashes of color, played hopscotch on the packed dirt, their laughter light and free. Merchants, with their careful, practiced cries, hawked their wares. She saw other travelers too: a quiet wizard lost in a thick book, a merchant carefully polishing small, glinting jewels, a family moving slowly, deliberately, towards another town. No one stared. No one pointed. No one whispered Death. She was just another face in the crowd, and that anonymity was exactly what she wanted, a shield against the world.
She walked the town, each step cautious, deliberate, a quiet effort to blend. A plain, sturdy dress and a simple cloak, bought from a small, unassuming shop, became her new uniform. The rough wool wasn't soft, but it was warm, and blessedly, it was whole. When she slipped it on, a tiny, almost forgotten piece of her old self seemed to settle back into place, a subtle shift in the air around her. The torn, common dress sheâd worn for what felt like a lifetime went into a refuse pile behind the inn, a secret goodbye to a life she hoped to shed like old skin. She studied the coins Kael had given her, tracing their cold, unfamiliar shapes, weighing them in her palm, trying to discern their worth, their secrets. A copper piece for a meal, four for a room. Each one felt precious, a tether to this new, confusing reality. She spent them slowly, carefully, each transaction a lesson learned.
This new routine, this quiet cadence of normal days, was a balm for her raw nerves. The constant terror of dying, the gnawing dread that had been her steady companion, faded, replaced by the simpler, quieter struggle of living. She wasn't fighting goblins or dodging arrows now. She was just trying to be ordinary. To survive in a world she barely understood. And for a little while, that felt like enough.
But peace, Elara was learning, was a fragile thing. A whisper on the wind, easily broken.
One afternoon, a little over a week after settling into The Sleeping Feline, Elara found herself in the common room, nursing a cup of weak herbal tea, coaxing it to last as long as possible. The soft crackle of the fire was the loudest sound in the mostly empty room. Then, the door creaked open, and two new adventurers strode in. Young, their bodies radiating a raw energy, their voices cut through the quiet. One, tall and lean, sported a scar over his eyebrow, his light leather armor creaking softly. The other, shorter, stockier, seemed burdened by a heavy backpack and a truly enormous sword. They ordered ale, their voices booming, and settled at a nearby table.
Elara barely registered them. Adventurers were common currency now, loud, yes, but usually self-contained. She kept her gaze fixed on her tea, pretending to be absorbed in its swirling depths.
Then she heard it. A whisper, just loud enough to slice through the gentle hum of the inn, sharp as a sudden breath.
"That's her," the tall adventurer muttered, his voice hushed but piercingly clear.
Elara stiffened, her spine rigid. Her? Her heart gave a sudden, hard thump against her ribs. She kept her eyes on her tea, every fiber of her being straining to hear.
The tall adventurer leaned closer to his friend, his voice barely a breath now. Elara felt his eyes on her, like tiny, insistent needles. She didnât dare look. "The one who cleared out a village of goblins in one go."
Elara almost dropped her cup. Goblins? Cleared out? Her mind replayed the endless, terrible deaths. The rusty dagger, the snarling, triumphant face, her own ragged screams echoing in a void. She hadn't "cleared out" anything. She had died. Over and over again. This was madness. Utter, ridiculous madness.
The shorter adventurer scoffed, a dismissive sound. "Oh, that? That's not uncommon. Lots of people take on goblins. Easy money." He sounded bored, as if the notion of a goblin massacre was as mundane as a cloudy day.
"But she's low level!" the tall one insisted, a note of awe blossoming in his voice. "Barely even has a proper sword, they say. Just a tiny dagger. And she wiped them all out. Like magic."
Elaraâs breath hitched, caught somewhere between her throat and her lungs. Low level. That part, at least, was brutally, undeniably true. And the dagger. Her small, simple dagger, the one Kael had handed her like a forgotten trinket. A shiver, cold and disbelieving, traced its way down her spine. How could such a horrifying, personal truth be twisted into this grand, heroic lie? She, the one who couldn't even fight back, was now a hero? The thought was absurd, a cruel joke.
The two adventurers continued to talk, their voices low. The tall one was weaving a tapestry of invention. He recalled details he had heard about her "fights," painting her as brave, as fearless. Elara listened, a strange, uncomfortable mix of horror and a tiny, almost shameful spark flickering inside her chest. It was all wrong. A total fabrication. But... no one was laughing at her. No one was whispering Death. They were talking about her as if she were strong. As if she possessed power.
Over the next few days, the rumors grew, spreading like a tiny spark catching on dry grass, fast and voracious. Elara heard it from Martha, the innkeeper, her kind eyes now holding a hint of respect. She heard it from other travelers, from people in the market. The story morphed with each telling. First, it was just "goblins." Then, it swelled to "an entire goblin camp." Then, with a ridiculous leap of logic, "she single-handedly cleared an entire troll village." A troll village! Trolls were huge, nasty beasts, the kind that squashed adventurers like grapes! The idea was so wild, so utterly unbelievable, it almost made her laugh, a thin, hysterical sound. She, Elara, the shy animator who tripped on stairs, fighting a troll? It was a crazy dream. A terrifying, wonderful dream.
But people believed it. Or, perhaps more accurately, they wanted to believe it.
The way people looked at her changed. Before, they had seen a poor, tired woman, a refugee. Now, their eyes held a mix of awe and curiosity. The blunt, dismissive stares were gone. There was a new respect, a cautious distance. They didn't know her. They knew the legend of her. It was a strange, unearned glory that settled heavily on her shoulders. And Elara, deep down, felt a persistent knot of guilt twist in her stomach. She was living a lie.
Meanwhile, Kaelâs coins, which had felt like a small fortune, dwindled with each passing day. Elara ate the cheapest meals, always chose the smallest portion, and never bought anything she didn't absolutely need. She counted her money every night, the small, glittering pile shrinking like a snowdrift in the sun. Each coin spent felt like a tiny piece of her fragile security chipping away.
One morning, Martha, the innkeeper, looked at her with a gentle sadness that chilled Elara to the bone. "Elara, dear," she said, her voice soft, hushed. "Your room for the week is due tomorrow. Do you... have it?"
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Elara felt her cheeks flush, a hot wave of shame. She had known this was coming. She counted the last few coins in her pouch, their cold weight a stark reminder of her dwindling time. Not enough. Barely enough for two more nights, certainly not a whole week. "I... I'm afraid not, Martha," she said, her voice barely a whisper, thin and reedy. "I don't have enough."
Martha sighed, a long, quiet sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world. "Times are hard, dear. I understand. But... I have others to think of. My family." She glanced around the busy common room, her gaze sweeping over the paying customers. "But there is a space... in the stable. It's not much, but it's warm enough. And it's cheap. A copper a week. Will keep the rain off your head."
The stable. Elara felt a sharp pang of shame, cold and cutting. The stable was for horses, for livestock. It would be cold, damp, and reek of hay and manure. Not a place for people to sleep. But it was that or the streets. She had no other choice. She nodded, trying to appear brave, to disguise the tremor in her hands. "Yes, Martha. That would be... that would be fine. Thank you." The words tasted like ash.
That afternoon, she gathered her few things: her new plain dress, her cloak, the nearly empty pouch, and her tiny dagger. Each item felt heavy, weighted with the grim reality of her situation. She walked to the back of the inn, where the stable stood, a long, low building, its wooden walls old and splintered, weathered by countless seasons. She pushed open the heavy door.
The air inside was thick, sharp with the smells of hay, horse sweat, and a faint, sweet scent of manure. It was dim, only a few thin slits of light slicing through cracks in the wooden walls. Horse whinnies and stomps echoed from deeper inside the cavernous space. Her corner was small, barely a few feet by a few feet, tucked behind a stall where a large, brown horse snorted and chewed its hay, its huge body radiating warmth. A thin, dirty bedroll lay on the packed earth floor, a grim invitation. A few empty barrels stood nearby, silent witnesses to her fall from grace. It was cold, even in the middle of the day. The ground, unforgiving, pressed against her. She could feel the drafts seeping through the cracks in the walls, a constant, chilling reminder of her new reality.
Elara sat on the bedroll, pulling her cloak tight around her, trying to shrink into its rough embrace. The reality of her situation, stark and brutal, hit her hard. From a warm, soft room in a quiet inn, she was now sleeping in a horse stable. The "hero" who cleared troll villages was living like a beggar, smelling like straw and horses. The irony of it all, the sharp, almost violent difference between the wild tales whispered about her and her real, miserable life, was almost too much to bear. She felt alone, cold, and utterly defeated, the weight of the lie pressing down on her.
She chose to spend her days in the inn's common room. Selecting a quiet corner for herself, she watched the other patrons, wondering about their lives and their past adventures.
In the next few days, something strange began to happen. Adventurers, hearing the whispers, sought her out. They didn't come to mock her now, not like in the Rusty Flagon. They came with wide, curious eyes, their gazes filled with a hunger for tales. They came with questions, their voices hushed with respect.
"Is it true, the tale of the Wyvern's Peak goblins?" one would ask, pulling up a stool near her corner, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break a spell.
"I heard you took down the Crimson Orc Chieftain single-handedly!" another would boom, his eyes gleaming with admiration, offering her a tankard of ale in the inn, his generosity a stark contrast to her poverty.
Elara would just offer a small, shy smile, a fleeting curve of her lips. She would mumble something vague, like "Oh, it was nothing, really," or "Just a lucky day," her voice a soft, almost imperceptible murmur. She had no real stories to tell, no grand feats of daring. How could she describe dying over and over again, the shame of endless, brutal defeat? They wouldn't understand. They wanted tales of glory, of impossible courage, not the mundane horror of constant failure. So she let them tell their own versions of her story. She let them fill in the blanks with their own wild ideas, their own desperate need for heroes. And surprisingly, they were happy with that. They filled the silence with their own booming narratives.
They bought her food. Not just simple, watery bowls of stew, but juicy cuts of roasted meat, thick slices of cheese, even sweet, sticky pastries sometimes. They bought her drinks â strong ale that made her head spin, blurring the edges of her desperate reality, but it was warm and comforting, a liquid blanket. They were eager to hear her "tales" of impossible feats, even if she barely spoke, even if she offered only a shy smile and a vague nod. They just wanted to be near the "low-level hero" who had supposedly done such amazing things, basking in her reflected glory.
Elara ate, and she drank. The guilt still gnawed at her, a constant, insidious whisper of "liar" in her mind, a sharp, unwelcome reminder of her deception. But the gnawing hunger, the deep, aching emptiness in her stomach, had slowly, mercifully, started to quiet that whisper. This was how she survived. This was how she got by. By letting people believe a lie. It was a bitter pill to swallow, a taste that lingered long after the warmth of the ale faded, but it kept her alive.
One evening, the inn was particularly noisy, a cacophony of booming laughter and clanking tankards. A group of adventurers, flush with a successful hunt, were celebrating loudly, their voices carrying across the common room. They had bought food, piles of it, and a whole barrel of ale. Elara sat, picking at a piece of roasted chicken, listening to their boisterous joy. She had already had a few free drinks, and the ale, warm and slightly sweet, had loosened her thoughts, dissolving some of the careful walls she had built around herself. It made her feel a bit braver. A bit more daring.
She looked at the adventurer sitting closest to her, a young man, a fighter, with kind, honest eyes and a simple, open face. He had been one of the first to offer her food, his belief in her "heroism" seemingly genuine, uncomplicated.
A thought, a deep, desperate need, bubbled up from the depths of her being, a frantic plea. This was her chance. He seemed nice. Maybe he would tell her.
"So," she began, trying to sound casual, as if she were merely making polite conversation, her voice light, tinged with a carefully manufactured teasing tone. "How exactly do you... open this 'menu' thing?"
The adventurer looked at her. A moment of silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. Then, his face split into a wide grin, broad and uninhibited. He threw his head back and burst into loud, booming laughter, a sound that filled the room. "Ha! The menu! Oh, Elara, you're a riot! That's a good one!" He slapped his knee, laughing even harder, his body shaking with mirth. His friends, hearing his infectious laughter, turned, their faces crinkling into chuckles, joining in the joke she hadnât intended.
Elara's heart sank, a leaden weight plummeting to her stomach. She wanted to shrink into the very ground, to disappear. Her cheeks burned, a hot, mortifying flush. He didn't believe her. He thought it was a joke, a clever bit of banter. He had missed the desperate plea in her voice, the real, urgent question hidden beneath her carefully constructed nonchalance. She had risked it. And she had failed.
But she was quick. Quick enough to hide her true feelings, to mask the sting of rejection. Now used to putting on a brave face, she forced a laugh. A loud, fake, mirthless laugh that felt like sandpaper in her throat. She even slapped her own knee, a mirror image of his gesture. "Oh, you got me!" she cried, making her voice sound light and teasing, as if she were in on the joke, as if she had orchestrated the entire thing. "I was just pulling your leg! Of course, I know how to open the menu! Why, I do it every day! How else do you think I keep track of all those goblin bounties, eh?" She winked, trying to make it sound like a grand, clever jest, a brilliant piece of performance.
The adventurer laughed even harder, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "I knew it! You're a funny one, Elara! What a trick!" He fell off his stool, a loud thud, ale sloshing onto himself and the floor. The entire group burst into fresh gales of laughter, oblivious to the desperate charade unfolding before them.
Elara kept laughing, a harsh, dry sound that felt like it was tearing at her throat. She laughed until her jaw ached, until her face felt stiff and unnatural, until the adventurer finally stopped laughing and went back to his own booming tales, the moment of her vulnerability passed, unnoticed.
The forced laughter died in her chest, leaving an echoing silence. She had dodged a bullet. She hadn't revealed her deepest secret, her most shameful truth, the glaring chasm in her understanding of this world. But the cost was heavy. She had lost her chance to learn, a fleeting opportunity crushed by her own fear and the adventurerâs unwitting amusement. And in doing so, she had deepened the lie she was living, weaving it tighter around herself.
She picked up her piece of chicken again, but it tasted dry and flavorless. The ale no longer warmed her. It felt cold, heavy in her stomach, a leaden weight of despair. She was a fraud. A peasant in a stable, pretending to be a hero, all for a few meals and drinks, a temporary reprieve from destitution. The irony was a bitter taste that lingered long after the laughter died down, a constant, searing reminder of her deception. She still didn't know how to open the menu. And now, she couldn't even ask. Not without breaking the careful, fragile lie she had built around herself, the lie that kept her fed.