CHAPTER 152: FINALLY, A BREAK...

Dylan’s POV

The six of them stepped into the inn, and strangely enough—despite its reputation—the place felt almost deserted. A few patrons were scattered across the room, but many chairs remained flipped atop the wooden tables. Dust coated the furniture in a way that betrayed a recent abandonment, as if the place had stopped breathing for a while.

Dylan walked in the middle of the group, flanked by Jonas and the bearded man. The girls had instinctively formed their own cluster. Soon, each of them was guided by one of the inn’s servants toward the available rooms. There, at last, they could drop their gear... and prepare for a bath.

The suitcase on Dylan’s back wasn’t particularly heavy—just dirty clothes and a few survival items—but it carried the weight of accumulated exhaustion. Physical and mental. He had reached a milestone, a place of rest. All he wanted was to set it down and, for the first time in a long while, just sit still.

He lifted his feet carefully, dodging the wobbly floorboards of the staircase as he followed the young woman leading him. Her outfit was the epitome of worn-out inn clichés: black dress, wrinkled white apron, red hair tied back in a loose bun. She looked dusty, as if their arrival had interrupted a cleaning session she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about.

Suddenly, she stopped short. Dylan nearly walked into her.

She turned slightly, green eyes meeting his with no real emotion.

"I’m sorry... I can’t take you any farther. Go up and pick three rooms that look comfortable. Make yourselves at home, please."

Her voice was flat, almost mechanical. Like someone reciting a line they’d grown too tired of saying. No smile, no anger. Just the weariness of a routine too old to question.

"Money... always about money," Dylan thought, his gaze momentarily caught by the freckles scattered across her face like an autumn sky.

He gave her a light smile, just enough to ease the tension. Softened his voice, let a playful note slip in:

"Come on, sweetheart. You’ve done enough already."

The young woman shook her head with the same apathy and turned to head downstairs, her skirt brushing softly against the wood.

"Rest well, sirs. My colleague and I will heat up the water for your bath."

At those words, Dylan’s grin widened. His eyes, two lakes of starlit pewter, gleamed with childlike excitement.

"We’ll meet again soon, my dear."

He climbed the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. The wood groaned under his steps, but the sound was oddly comforting. Something real. Old, maybe—but still there. He pushed open the first cracked door he found.

The room was simple. A bed with a slightly rusted iron frame, coarse but clean sheets, a wobbly nightstand with a chipped enamel basin. One window, half-covered by a beige curtain that had seen better years.

Dylan dropped his suitcase with a sigh of relief, then stood there for a moment, hands on his hips.

The room was filled with a thick silence. Not a hostile one. More like... the silence that lingers when the world has tired itself out from too much talking.

He sat on the bed. The mattress creaked, but didn’t complain. He smiled. It wasn’t luxury, but it was... something. A shelter. A pause.

His hands drifted to his boots out of habit. The laces were soaked, crusted with dry mud and dust. He untied them slowly, savoring the feeling of finally being out of danger. Out of the wind. Out of the noise.

When he pulled off the second boot, a sharp pain made him hiss.

"Shit..."

He pulled off the sock. A blackened toenail, a red toe, and what looked like a small colony of blisters ready to stage a mutiny. He winced, then burst out laughing—alone, in that mute room.

"That bath better be hot, ’cause if I die today, I’d rather drown in soap than in my own damn foot rot."

He lay down across the bed, arms spread wide, eyes on the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t answer.

Good.

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he forgot the forest, the march, the creature in the mist, the screams, the blood, the sweat, the war-flavored black bread. He even forgot Maggie, Jonas, Élisa, and the others. He forgot Martissant. He forgot his name.

Just... a quiet room, a worn-out mind, and a peaceful ceiling.

A knock on the door.

Once. Then twice.

"Sir... the bath is ready."

It was the voice of the other maid. Younger, too. But less broken. She spoke like someone who still had a few illusions left in stock.

Dylan opened his eyes. He smiled.

"I’m coming, miss. And believe me... I’ve been dreaming of this for two weeks."

The floor groaned again under his feet as he left the room. The hallway was empty, lit only by an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, its flame swaying like an uncertain thought.

Hot water. A luxury he hadn’t had access to in what felt like forever. A dream made tangible.

He followed the trail of steam to a half-open door at the end of the hall. Another maid—not the same one—waited there in silence. She stepped aside to let him pass, her gaze fixed on the ground like the mere act of witnessing him cost her something.

The room was tiny. Tiled in grimy blue, heavy with warmth, with a single cast-iron tub sunken into the floor, filled to the brim with murky water. Two steaming buckets sat nearby, freshly emptied.

Dylan stepped forward, almost hesitantly. As if unsure he deserved it.

He reached out. Touched the surface.

Warm. Not scalding. Just right.

He slowly peeled off his torn shirt, fingers fumbling over the buttons, his muscles unwilling to cooperate. He stripped off his damp pants, tossed his underwear into a corner without ceremony, then stepped one foot, then the other, into the bath.

He sank into it slowly, the way one sinks into a memory.

And for a moment, he didn’t move.

Just the water. The body. And a long, long sigh, as if something deep inside him was finally being released. A fatigue months old, wedged between his ribs.

He closed his eyes. Listened.

There was nothing to hear.

And yet...

He listened harder. A scratch? No. A hiss? Maybe. Or maybe it was just the silence, finally breathing. If silence had a voice.

His thoughts drifted. His head tilted back, resting on the edge. His hair floated barely at the surface. He felt warmth envelop him. Gentle. Almost dangerous.

And then he felt something else.

A presence.

Not a person.

Something.

A breath, on the nape of his neck. Just a sensation.

His eyes flew open. The water rippled.

No one. Nothing. Just steam on the windows, and a sigh from the water as it slowly cooled.

He shivered.

But he didn’t get out.

He sat up a little, wincing. One toe throbbed again, pulling him sharply back to reality. He let out a nervous laugh.

"Even in a damn bath, there has to be weirdness. Seriously. Can someone, somewhere, just let me relax?"