The common room of the Golden Ear Inn was as small and simple as it was pleasant and welcoming. About ten old, worn-out tables of various shapes and sizes, along with some thirty sturdy wooden chairs, filled the center of the room in a chaotic arrangement. The entrance and a pair of large windows with dirty glass panes took up nearly the entire eastern wall, while the northern side was dominated by a great stone fireplace, its crackling hearth spreading a comforting warmth throughout the space. A wide, creaky wooden staircase clung to the western wall, climbing up toward the first floor, where the guest rooms were located. Along the southern wall stretched a long, dark wooden counter, interrupted only near a narrow arched passage leading to the kitchens beyond. From there drifted tantalizing aromas of roasted dishes.

As Goldrick glanced around, taking in the surroundings, he felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. The soft light from the wrought-iron chandeliers—some fixed to the walls, others dangling from the beamed ceiling—combined with the gentle clinking of cutlery and the low murmur of the patrons, who filled about half the available seats, lent the room a tranquil atmosphere. Something he truly needed after nearly an entire day spent trudging along the muddy road. His traveling companions, for their part, seemed to appreciate it just as much. Especially Tiresio, Gwen, and Liris, who sat wearily at a table, chatting as they waited for one of the tavern maids to serve their dinner.

Lucien, on the other hand, gave the impression of being unable—or perhaps unwilling—to truly enjoy the moment, despite the carefree air one might expect of someone his age. It was as if he were constantly brooding over thoughts too deep to share. Karak, meanwhile, cloaked in his dark mantle with his hood drawn low to hide his face, seemed far too focused on avoiding attention to care about anything else. A more than understandable choice, given the prejudices of this land toward those deemed “strange,” “unusual,” or even “monstrous.” Prejudices and fears that Goldrick himself had harbored upon discovering the truth about him.

But the middle-aged man had since come to think differently, both due to what had happened at the old manor and inspired by the teachings of his faith. Karak had proven to be reliable, loyal, and brave—far more than many others. And that was enough for him. Still, based on personal experience, he wouldn’t wager on the people of the Valley treating him with the same fairness.

While lost in such thoughts, he couldn't help but overhear the conversation of two elderly men seated at the small table next to theirs. A conversation that immediately piqued his interest.

“It was a real stroke of luck those travelers came to Lord Lucas’s aid!” exclaimed the first, a man with untidy gray hair and beard—likely a farmer, judging by his simple and partly tattered clothes.

“No doubt about it. It would’ve been a tragedy!” replied the other, sipping slowly from a wooden tankard. “For all of Ravast, for Lady Anastasia, and for the Ravast family itself. They certainly don’t deserve more misfortune after everything they’ve already endured…”

At those words, Goldrick’s curiosity was so clearly sparked that his interest became obvious—a detail not lost on the second old man, a bald, hollow-eyed, thin figure in ragged clothing. Noticing his inquisitive, somewhat annoyed expression, the middle-aged man quickly tried to offer a convincing explanation for his eavesdropping.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude on your conversation,” he said, offering a reassuring smile. “I just heard you talking about us, and so…”

“Yes, well…” he added, upon noticing the confusion sparked by his words, “…we’re the very travelers you were talking about.”

The two elders exchanged a surprised glance, then turned to examine each of the six seated nearby.

“In fact…” murmured the first, scratching his thick beard.

“The description I heard fits… and then, the emblem on your robe…” added the second, nodding toward the small, embroidered symbol of a rising sun on the collar of Goldrick’s uniform.

“That’s right,” said the other, his eyes lighting with joy. “We can trust a member of the Church of the Dawn Lord!”

“Well then,” added the second again, finally smiling at the group now watching him with curiosity, “thank you for helping Lord Ravast’s guards against those brigands! You’ve certainly earned the gratitude of the whole village!”

“And a toast in your honor!” concluded the first, raising his tankard high.

Tiresio, Lucien, Gwen, and Liris, led by Goldrick, gladly joined the gesture, exchanging appreciative smiles with the two elders. Once the tankards returned to the tables, the middle-aged man took advantage of the now-warm atmosphere to delve into the topic that had caught his ear.

“Earlier, you also mentioned something that happened years ago to the Ravast family…” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Terrible story!” the gray-bearded man exclaimed, lowering his gaze to his mug and shaking his head.

“Do you really want to know?” asked the other, fixing his eyes on Goldrick.

When the latter returned the gaze with a steady one of his own, the hollow-eyed old man felt he could not disappoint his listener. He took another long sip from his mug before beginning.

“You must know that about eight years ago, there was a fire at the old Ravast manor. A great fire. Apparently started by an oil lantern that fell in the stables near the house. A misfortune, nothing more…”

The old man paused for a moment, sighing—as if the mere memory still brought him unbearable pain.

“Unfortunately,” he continued, under the rapt attention of his impromptu audience, while the rest of the inn’s patrons continued their meals and chatter, “in the flames that consumed the entire manor, many were injured, and several lost their lives. Mostly servants, along with Lord Lucas and Lord Simon’s paternal grandfather, Ferrand Ravast. The ancient family home, which stood atop a high hill beyond the woods just north of here, was so badly damaged that they decided not to rebuild it. The Ravasts moved into the village instead. Among us. Into a smaller home, yet still fitting for their station.

“But misfortune, alas, did not cease to hound them that day. Quite the contrary. It clung to the family all the more fiercely. Two years later, due to the severe injuries he’d sustained in the fire, Lord Calun Ravast—father of Lucas and Simon—passed away. And not long after, his beloved wife Yelena followed, felled by heartbreak just four months later. Lord Lucas and Lord Simon were left alone. They were already grown by then, but from that moment onward they bore the full weight of their family’s legacy on their shoulders.

“Thankfully, Lord Lucas, the firstborn and heir, has led the village with the same care and wisdom as his father and grandfather. And that’s why we all hold him in such high regard. As you can see, the Ravast family’s recent history is one of tragedy and sorrow…” the old man concluded with another sigh.

Goldrick’s downcast eyes reflected the weight of what he had just heard. The tale had struck him with a wave of overwhelming melancholy. He, too, had suffered a loss that he still struggled to recover from, and he could scarcely imagine what it must have been like for Lucas and Simon Ravast to lose both their home and their loved ones in so short a span. Suddenly, instinctively, he felt almost fortunate in comparison—a thought he quickly banished, ashamed. A loss was still a loss. And a tragedy, no matter whose, remained just that. A truth he had confronted far too many times in the past. Both personally and beyond. So many times that it could have broken anyone’s spirit.

But not his.

He had sworn to fight against such tragedies—or at least ease the burdens of those who endured them. And he hadn’t wavered since. The Dawn Lord would show him the way.

He glanced toward his companions, who had also fallen silent, moved by the story. And once again, he was the first to speak.

“So it was during that fire that Lord Simon…” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “…ended up…”

“In a wheelchair?” interrupted the old man, taking another sip from his tankard. “No. That was another misfortune to strike the family. And it happened years before.”

He paused again, exchanging a sorrowful look and one last, lingering sigh with his companion.

“He was twelve… Only twelve… when Lord Simon accidentally fell from his horse.”