The Last Beacon

III

"I must say, this place seems nicer than you made it out to be."

Sascha looked over at the man who had just spoken. He was gazing up at the sign of the place she had lived in for the past three years, The Dragon's Breath Inn. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Once you see the rooms, Laurenz Marcello, you'll be stood corrected."

"We'll see."

Sascha laughed, "No, you'll see. I never knew until now how much I wanted to leave this heap. Let's just go in and get my stuff."

"Alright, bossy britches. Lead the way." He said, gesturing to the entryway.

Sascha rolled her eyes and pushed past him. She shoved the inn door in just the right way to persuade it to open with minimal difficulty.

The first time she came to the inn, she had no idea how to get the door open; it was stuck. Turns out, the builders made the door a fraction too large for the frame. Vena, the owner, had informed her of this on the first day she realised that Sascha was there to stay long-term.

Vena Dale had taken a shine to the young girl. She let her stay for a cheaper rate than her other customers, partly because she didn't think Sascha had the money, but also because she sympathized with her because of the tragic house fire that killed her family. Everyone in town knew about it— it was the gossip for over a month. Some would say it was a pure accident, maybe an oil lamp was untamed, perhaps the embers of the fireplace hit the carpet and set it alight. But others said otherwise. Those who thought it wasn't an accident spewed wild theories and speculations, calling out particular suspects that they surmised were capable of murder. One even went as far as claiming that they saw someone in a dark coat lingering in the shadows near the house with a bottle of fuel. Nobody believed them, of course, especially not the ones who were too invested in their own suspicions to bother listening to other people's opinions. Vena personally was one of the ones who believed it wasn't an accident. Of course, she would never admit that to Sascha, instead she always told her that it wasn't her fault, and she shouldn't feel guilt for the deaths of the people who loved her.

"Morning, Sascha," Vena beamed, as soon as she entered. She took no notice of the older, darker skinned man who towered over both of the women. "I didn't catch you last night, honey."

Sascha let out a small smile, "You wouldn't have. I stayed at my old buddy's place," she said, nudging Laurenz with her elbow. Vena leaned curiously over the desk. "I take it you need something?"

Sascha cleared her throat. "No, actually. I'm here to collect my stuff, I'm leaving. Whatever I don't take you can have."

"Leaving?" Vena asked. "Why? Where to, if you don't mind me asking?"

"We do mind, actually." Laurenz interrupted. "Sascha, go pack your things, I'll be right behind you."

Sascha did so without speaking. She brushed away the wary behaviour that Laurenz was displaying around Vena. Has he met her before? Does he know something that I don't?

She drew her room key from a hidden pocket in her coat and jiggled it into the lock. She pushed the door open, her fingertips brushing against the tarnished peach-coloured painted wood. She walked into her room, her home for the past three years. There was a single bed that took up a fair amount of the room, and a desk beside it. There was a doorway that led into the bathroom which only housed a toilet and a bathtub. Sascha's small home was almost everything she had, aside from her belongings that she had acquired over the years from pickpocketing and stealing from homes and stores. Everything she once owned had burned along with her family and her happiness. The walls were lined with a terrible red and gold pattern to match the faded carpet. What clothes Sascha had were sprawled across the floor and her bed, exactly the way she had left it when she ventured to the pub the night before.