The four newcomers sat like they owned the air around them.
The two women spoke softly, heads tilted toward each other, voices too low for the room to catch. One of the men kept his back to a wall, eyes half-lidded but constantly moving. The other tapped his fingers on the table like he was bored, but boredom in a fighter was often a lie.
Sanè tried not to stare.
But it was hard not to.
They were beautiful, yes. But beauty was not what truly drew attention.
It was confidence.
They had the confidence of people who had never had to fear consequences in small towns like this.
After a while, the blonde waitress brought them wine and food. She moved carefully, as if she didn't want to spill anything near them.
One of the women thanked her with a smile.
The waitress nodded quickly and left.
Sanè noticed something then.
The waitress did not look relieved when she walked away.
She looked tense.
Number 111 leaned slightly toward Sanè. "Do you feel it?"
Sanè nodded. "Yes."
Number 123 whispered, "What is it?"
Number 200 answered bluntly. "Trouble."
Sanè kept watching the new group, trying to understand what kind of trouble it was.
Hunters?
Nobles?
Council agents?
They didn't wear masks. They didn't try to hide. That meant either they weren't afraid… or they had the power to not be afraid.
Then the inn's rumors shifted again, like a river changing course.
A man at a nearby table, drunk and loud, started talking about Dravenloch again—how the Skull Family had arrived, how the Maverick family was weakening, how the city might fall.
One of the men from the newcomers' table glanced over.
Just a glance.
But it was sharp.
Sanè felt it like a touch on the skin.
The man looked away again, returning to his drink as if nothing happened.
Yet Sanè's instincts tightened.... telling him that...he is a formidable foe.
Because trained fighters didn't glance like that unless they were listening.
Sanè lowered their voice. "They might be connected to Dravenloch."
Number 111's eyes narrowed behind their mask. "Or to Number 12."
Number 123 shifted uncomfortably. "Should we leave?"
Number 200 shook their head once. "12 said lay low."
Sanè's jaw tightened for some seconds before loosening back.
Lay low was easy when danger was obvious. It was harder when danger smiled beautifully and sat down at a nearby table like a casual guest.... that's what they felt from them.
Sanè watched the four strangers carefully, trying to catch any clue.
Then one of the women turned slightly—just enough for her gaze to pass over Sanè's table.
Her eyes paused on them.
Not long.
Just long enough.
And in that small pause, Sanè understood one thing clearly:
They had been noticed.
The woman turned back to her companions and said something in a voice too low to hear. One of the men's eyes flicked toward the masked group now. The other man stopped tapping his fingers.
The whole table had shifted, subtle but real.
Sanè's eyes squirted.
As Number 111 sat straighter.
Number 123's hands tightened around his cup.
Number 200's posture remained still, but the air around her felt heavier, like she were preparing to move fast.
Outside, the night deepened over Her Grave.
Inside, the inn's warmth suddenly felt less comforting.
Because whatever message had pulled Number 12 away… might have also brought these four here.
And if that was true, then the quiet hours were ending.
They went upstairs after a while.
The inn was still noisy, but the kind of noise that dulled into the background once exhaustion settled into the bones. Sanè, 111, 123, and 200 stood from their table one by one and walked to the counter. The blonde waitress met them with the same careful expression she had worn all night, like she was used to strangers who carried danger with them.
"We need rooms," 111 said.
The waitress reached beneath the counter and brought out a ring of keys. "Four rooms. Two hundred Marks each."
Number 200 placed the coins down without complaint. The money came from the pouch Number 12 had left behind, and even though none of them spoke it aloud, they all understood the same thing: 12 expected them to survive long enough to use it.
The waitress slid four keys across the counter. The metal was cold, and each key had a small tag tied to it, marked with a room number.
"Up the stairs," she said. "Second corridor."
They nodded and went up.
The rooms were plain—wooden beds, thin blankets, and a small table with a candle. Nothing luxurious. But the walls were solid, and the locks looked reliable enough.
111 and 123 disappeared into their rooms quickly. Number 200 took her key, entered, and closed the door without a sound.
Sanè stood in front of his own door for a moment. He held the key but didn't unlock it immediately.
Something about the town made it hard to relax.
Something about the inn's name, the way the streets outside looked too quiet, the way people stared a second too long at masks.
He went inside anyway.... deciding not to think about it too much.
He lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes.... trying to sleep.
But sleep didn't come.
His thoughts kept moving, circling like hungry birds. The beautiful strangers downstairs. The way one of them had looked at him. The way Number 12 had left without explaining anything.
After some time, Sanè sat up, breathing out slowly.
He couldn't rest.
So he went back downstairs.
When he stepped into the inn's common room, he was surprised to see it still full. Not as crowded as earlier, but still busy. Men still drank. Travelers still talked. The hearth still burned. It was as if the night refused to end.
Sanè stood near the stairs for a moment, watching.
Then he made a choice.
They had planned to look around the town in the morning. That was what made sense. Morning light was safer. Morning meant fewer shadows.
But Sanè wasn't feeling patient.
He pulled his hood up and stepped outside.
The air hit him like cold cloth.
Her Grave at night looked normal at first glance—small houses, low fences, lanterns hanging from posts. But the street carried a heavy feeling. Not magical. Not loud. Just heavy, like the ground remembered too many funerals.