Chương 203: 29. Fairy Tavern and Yozora 2

By the time I stepped out of the old dentist's establishment—which occupied the aesthetic space somewhere between a surgical instrument display and a pharmacy that had stopped caring—the sky had gone completely dark. Harbor nights are heavier than inland ones. The wind carries salt, fish, the bitter seep of timber soaked too long, and tonight, something extra: tension. Since the port closure, even the air felt stretched taut. I looked up and ran a mental calculation of the hour.

If I went back now, I'd arrive well before mealtime. Return too early and Ignicia would spot me the moment I walked in, then pick me up like a tool she'd left on the floor and put me straight back to work. … Fine. I'd finished my immediate errand. There had to be some clause in the unspoken contract of existence that said a Kingdom special envoy wasn't required to spend every waking hour running errands for a dragon princess.

A brief walk to clear my head—that was the last remaining scrap of human dignity I possessed. That brief walk took me directly to the eastern gate. The crowd there looked like someone had tried to pour half the city's population through a funnel, then decided to stir it with a stick for entertainment. People trying to leave, people trying to enter, merchants who'd finished their business and wanted to slip out under cover of night, locals gone pale at news of the closure—all compressed into one heaving mass.

The garrison had locked the gate completely; iron bars lowered, spears and staves forming a horizontal barrier that communicated one message with perfect clarity: no one leaves tonight.

"Back! Get back!" The soldiers roared, swinging their staves with the enthusiasm of people who had confused crowd management with livestock herding.

"Ah—!" A sharp cry came from right beside me. Someone had been shoved hard, stumbled, and gone down.

"Hey, easy with that!" I shot a glare at the soldier winding up for another swing and bent down, extending a hand.

"You alright there?"

"Oh my... I must apologize for troubling you so." … A woman. And with an unreasonably beautiful voice. Not simply soft—more like a thin layer of silk drawn across your ear in the dark, the trailing syllables carrying an inflection that had no business existing in a harbor district. She kept her head down, hood pulled low. I couldn't see her face clearly—only an unnaturally pale jawline and a strand of dark hair that had escaped the hood's edge. Worse, the moment I helped her up, I caught her scent.

Not the cloying sweetness of noble ladies' perfumes, nor the aggressive fragrance tavern women layered on by the handful. This was lighter, damper, more persistent. Wet timber, pollen, and night dew woven together into something that traveled from nose to the back of the skull and lingered there. My pulse jumped without permission. Reason immediately knocked on the inside of my head: Something's wrong. But it wasn't the sharp, blade-at-throat kind of wrong.

More like realizing your boot had sunk into mud without yet knowing how deep the mud went.

"The gate isn't opening tonight, it seems." Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Her voice carried disappointment, but not the panic of someone just now understanding they were trapped. It sounded like someone whose bad premonition was simply being confirmed.

"Port's sealed," I said.

"You live outside the walls?"

"Indeed... this one resides beyond the city." I froze for a second. This one. I'd never heard anyone actually use that archaic form of self-address in real conversation. It wasn't just old-fashioned—it was suspiciously ancient, like someone wearing peasant clothes who opened their mouth and let a piece of old mythology fall out.

"Right—well—you won't be getting out tonight." I cleared my throat, trying to push back against whatever that scent was doing to my focus.

"You'll need to find somewhere to stay until morning, or—""This way." She reached out and lightly caught my sleeve. The faintest pull. And I didn't shake her off. It took two full steps before I delivered a comprehensive internal reprimand. What am I doing? I'd known this woman for less than ten minutes. I hadn't even seen her face. Yet here I was, following her through back alleys like a fish that had spotted something shiny on a hook and decided the shiny part was worth investigating.

Every rational instinct screamed: let go, walk away. But that faint scent had softened exactly the right half-inch of whatever was supposed to be keeping me sensible. Half an inch isn't much—it's precisely enough to make a mistake. And her mention of living outside the walls had snagged perfectly on the thread I'd brought from the dentist: outsiders, itinerants, outside hands. So I didn't let go. I even constructed a perfectly serviceable justification. I'm not following a woman. I'm following a lead. …

That self-deception was roughly as credible as "I'm not drinking, I'm disinfecting," but I needed it at the time. She led me through the narrow lanes beside the gate. Cramped and slick, lined with half-rotted crates and fish baskets, the cobbles wet enough to shine. Yet she moved with complete assurance, taking every turn without hesitation—like someone walking a memorized route rather than improvising an escape. Which was already wrong.

An ordinary woman stranded by a port closure wouldn't know these inner alleys at this level of familiarity. I watched her back. She wasn't tall, the cloak obscuring her shape, but her steps carried a lightness that had nothing performative about it—the natural lightness of someone who had always known exactly where to place their feet without making unnecessary sound.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" I finally asked. She didn't turn around.

"Somewhere safer than out here tonight." That carried all the reassuring power of "don't worry, this barely hurts"—the kind of thing that makes you want to reverse course immediately. Unfortunately, by the time I seriously considered stopping, it was already too late. We halted before an unremarkable two-story building. A wooden sign hung by the door, edges warped from moisture. Three characters painted in faded ink: Fairy Pavilion. The name sounded like some whimsical drinking establishment.

The moment the door opened, I knew nothing here was being served in teacups. The interior lighting was deliberately low. The air held wine, incense, and something else—a layered softness that was difficult to name. Laughter from somewhere. Hushed conversation. From upstairs, the ghost of stringed music threading through the floorboards. The proprietor looked up when we entered, his gaze landing on me first, then sliding to the woman's cloak with practiced efficiency. He didn't ask a single unnecessary question.

Too familiar. The kind of familiar that meant everyone here understood exactly what got asked and what didn't.

"One room," she said without inflection. The proprietor quoted a price without moving an eyebrow. I was about to say wait, I'm not— But the room token hit the counter, and my hand—operating several seconds ahead of my brain—had already found my coin purse. The coins landed with a clear, bright sound. I snapped back to full consciousness approximately one beat later. … Oh, hell. Had I just paid for a room with a woman I'd met twenty minutes ago?

If this reached Eckhaus, my title would undergo immediate administrative revision: from Kingdom Emergency Special Envoy to Idiotic Noble Who Got Honey-Trapped by a Street Walker. The proprietor swept the coins away with smooth efficiency. I turned to the woman beside me. She didn't explain. Didn't look at me. Simply took the room token with natural ease. Her manner said, without words: At this stage, any attempt at dignity is purely decorative.

I cursed myself through several generations of ancestry and followed her upstairs anyway. Not because something had overridden my common sense. Because I'd already come this far, and turning back now wouldn't just be embarrassing—it would almost certainly cause a scene that brought the entire Fairy Pavilion down on my head. For the record, once more: I was not here for what this establishment implied. I was following a lead. Even I was beginning to find that justification structurally unsound. The door closed.

Complete darkness. I hadn't even managed to determine the room's layout before something hit me with decisive force— The next instant, I was flat on my back.

"Wha—"