Adrian made his way through the kingdom streets, weaving through the midday crowd with ease. Along the way, he picked up some grilled meat from a street vendor—still hot and dripping with fat—and grabbed a handful of beef jerky for the road. Always good to have rations when walking into something sketchy.
An hour later, he arrived at the inn he'd stayed in just days before… or what used to be the inn. The doors were now boarded up, the windows dark and empty. A faded sign hung crookedly by one nail, swinging with each breeze.
He stared at it for a moment, chewing on a piece of jerky.
"Huh. Guess they finally gave up on that dump," he muttered, then shrugged and walked on.
The eastern district was quieter now, the streets growing more worn, the cobblestone uneven. A few beggars sat slumped against the walls, most of them wrapped in ragged cloaks or thin blankets. One of them held a cup, shaking it half-heartedly.
Adrian glanced around, then approached a pair sitting near a broken fountain.
"Hey," he said, voice casual. "I'm looking for a church. Called Fleur de Sel. You know it?"
The beggars didn't say a word at first—just held out their hands expectantly. Adrian stared at them, visibly annoyed.
"So you want money for information," he muttered, digging into his coin pouch. "I swear, if it's that building over there, I'm killing both of you."
Grumbling, he pulled out six gulden and slapped three coins into each of their hands.
"Now talk."
"It's that one over there," both men said in unison, pointing to a building farther down the road.
Adrian squinted at it.
"...Huh. Not the one I thought. Guess you live another day," he muttered, turning away.
"Thanks," he added, not even trying to sound sincere as he pocketed his pouch and walked toward the church.
The building stood quiet and plain, almost too ordinary. There were no markings, no signs—just a single wooden door. Adrian didn't bother knocking. He simply grabbed the handle and walked in.
Inside, the air was still. Heavy. The smell of cooked food lingered, but it felt... wrong. At a long wooden table, more than a dozen people sat eating quietly. Their movements were mechanical, their eyes glazed over, and they wore eerie, hollow smiles.
None of them looked up. None reacted to Adrian's entrance. They just chewed slowly, robotically, as if the act of eating was the only thing keeping them upright.
Adrian stood in the doorway, expression blank as he took it all in.
"They don't even look alive," he muttered. "Like husks."
"OI, IDIOTS!" Adrian shouted, his voice echoing through the hall.
Not a single head turned. No one flinched. They just kept eating—if it could even be called that.
Adrian scowled and walked over to one of them, a middle-aged man with sunken eyes and a stiff, unnatural smile. He grabbed the man's plate and yanked it away.
The man didn't budge.
His hand kept moving in a slow, looping motion—fork rising to his mouth, though there was nothing there. The fork scraped the wooden table with each pass, a dull clink-clink-clink that made Adrian's jaw tighten.
"Right," Adrian muttered. "Definitely not normal."
He glanced around the room. The others were doing the same thing—chewing air, smiling with vacant stares, their meals long gone or untouched but still going through the motions.
It was like watching puppets whose strings had been tangled.
"Hello?" a voice called from the far end of the room.
Adrian turned sharply toward a narrow staircase. Descending the steps was an older man, likely in his fifties. He was short and unassuming at first glance, but the calluses on his hands spoke of years with a sword—someone who'd seen combat and lived to tell the tale.
"Could you stop harassing the people, sir?" the man asked kindly—too kindly. His tone was soft, gentle… and deeply unsettling.
Adrian stared at him like he was looking at a ghost.
"You call these people?"
"They're enjoying their meal," the man replied with that same syrupy tone. "And they don't like being disturbed. So would you kindly leave?"
Adrian's eyes narrowed as he took a step forward.
"I don't think I will. Not until you tell me what you did to them."
The air shifted the moment he spoke.
In an instant, every person at the table stood and charged at Adrian—dozens of footsteps thundering across the wooden floor.
But just as suddenly, the old man raised his hand, palm open in a halting gesture.
The diners froze mid-run.
Then, without a word or change of expression, they calmly turned back and resumed their seats, returning to their fake, rhythmic chewing like nothing had happened.
Adrian didn't move. His muscles tensed, ready for a fight. His eyes stayed locked on the old man.
"What. The hell. Are they?" he asked.
"I think that is none of your concern, sir," the man said calmly. "Leave."
His tone tightened just slightly, the ever-present kind smile on his face starting to feel more like a mask than a gesture.
Adrian didn't answer right away. He slowly glanced around the room again.
That's when he noticed it—white particles scattered on the floor beneath the long table and the diners' chairs. At first glance, it looked like spilled salt or maybe sugar. Harmless.
But as a stray beam of sunlight pierced through a cracked window, the particles shimmered faintly, glowing for just a moment. Not natural. Not normal.
Adrian filed it away.
"Alright. I'll leave," he said at last, voice flat with restrained irritation.
He turned without another word and stepped out of the building, the warm sun outside a sharp contrast to the cold dread hanging inside.
But his mind was already working.
I'll come back later... when it's dark.