Zarkrion and the old woman were sitting side by side on the makeshift bench, sharing the meal in an initially comfortable silence. The large bowl passed from hand to hand; the old woman took small, delicate bites, using a piece of bread she had pulled from her apron as an improvised spoon.
Zarkrion, for his part, ate with more appetite but without haste, enjoying the calm he felt for the first time since arriving in that place.
The old woman chewed slowly, closing her eyes from time to time as if she wanted to capture every nuance of the flavor. It was just simple fried fish with sautéed vegetables, nothing more: lemon, salt, flour, hot oil, and fresh vegetables. Yet for her, it was something completely new.
Never, in all her long years, had she tasted anything that combined that crispy outer texture with such perfect juiciness inside, nor vegetables that retained their natural sweetness while blending with the aroma of the fish. Her hands trembled slightly, not from cold this time, but from pure surprise.
"Listen, young man..." she said at last, breaking the silence with a soft voice full of curiosity. "Where are you from? I haven't seen a cook in a very long time. Really... a very long time."
Zarkrion, who had his mouth full, swallowed before answering. The question caught him by surprise. He was focused on the food and the relief of finally having someone who didn't run away from him. But the phrase "I haven't seen a cook" echoed in his mind like an alarm bell.
"How do you mean you haven't seen a cook in a long time?" he asked, frowning. "There really aren't any cooks here? That... that doesn't make sense."
The old woman looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and strangeness, as if the question were the most natural thing in the world.
"Of course there aren't any, child. Years ago, the noble lord took away everyone who knew how to cook well. He said they were a luxury that only he deserved in his mansion. Since then, here we only eat things raw or boiled at home, without salt or spices. That's why your food... it's like a miracle."
"No wonder I don't see any taverns around here, what a selfish guy."
Zarkrion felt a chill run down his spine. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he decided to be honest.
"Um... I'm lost," he said in a low voice. "I arrived in this village by crossing the forest. I was on the outskirts with my companion, but suddenly I appeared here and I don't know how to get back."
The old woman tilted her head, confused.
"Young man... I don't know where you've come from, but it's impossible for there to be a village in the forest. In this whole region, the only settlement is this one. Everything else is dense forest, full of monsters and mist. No one crosses that forest and lives to tell the tale."
Zarkrion spat out the bite he had in his mouth, coughing in surprise. Some of the food fell to the ground. He stared at the old woman with wide eyes.
"This is a joke, right?" he said, almost shouting. "But just a few hours ago I was with my companion! We got lost, found some ruins... and then I came out of the forest and arrived here."
The old woman shook her head slowly, with the calm of someone who has lived many decades and knows her land well.
"Believe me, child. I was born in this village. I was raised here, I got married here. My husband even became the mayor. I've spent my whole life seeing the same horizon. This village is the only thing that exists in this area. Beyond here, to the east, you have to cross three more villages to reach the Daytime Forest. And to the west... only the dark forest you mention. There's nothing there but low-level monsters and eternal mist."
Zarkrion fell silent, processing every word.
"Seriously?" he murmured. "I can't believe it... But... what about the ruins in that place?"
The old woman frowned, not understanding.
"Ruins? What ruins, young man?"
Zarkrion stood up abruptly, looking around with new eyes. The wooden and adobe houses, the cobblestone streets, the market full of life, the children playing in the square... Everything suddenly seemed familiar to him. Too familiar.
"Wait a minute..." he said to himself.
He walked a few steps, observing every detail: the central fountain with the statue of an ancient hero, the blacksmith's stall with the same rusty anvil, the clock tower that marked the time with the same crack in the bell. Everything matched exactly the ruins he had explored with Fariella before entering the mist.
The old woman watched him worriedly.
"Young man... are you feeling all right? Did I say something wrong?"
Zarkrion turned to her, with an expression of absolute understanding.
"This village... I know it. These are the ruins."
The old woman blinked, confused.
"Ruins? What do you mean by ruins? This is Gulbert, the most prosperous village in the central region."
"Not so prosperous with the noble they've got."
Zarkrion spoke in a low voice, almost to himself, as the pieces fit together in his mind.
"I already thought something very strange was happening... This village is the ruins I saw a few hours ago."
He paused for a long time.
"It's impossible for ruins to turn into a village full of life... That can only mean one thing: I traveled to the past because of that mist."
The impact hit him like a wave. He then remembered, with absolute clarity, a side event from the original game. An optional high-level quest called "The Ashes of Gulbert." In it, the player arrived at burned ruins and, through a temporal spell in the forest mist, was transported to the past: exactly to this moment, days before the great calamity.
The absence of taverns and cooks was the first key clue. In the quest, it was explained that the local noble, Lord Valthor, had banned all professional cooking and taken all the expert cooks to his mansion, claiming they were "a luxury reserved for the nobility." Then, dissatisfied with the taxes he could still collect from the impoverished village, he had secretly raised a giant fire salamander for years, which he controlled with an enchanted magic flute.
When the village mildly rebelled against the abusive taxes, Valthor released the beast. The salamander razed everything: houses, people, animals. No one survived. The village was reduced to ashes and ruins, just as Zarkrion had seen them in the "present."
In the original novel's story, Grey Greenderson, the protagonist, arrived late. As always. He found the smoking ruins, cursed his fate, and then pursued Valthor until defeating him in an epic duel, but the village was already lost forever. It was one of those dramatic moments that reinforced the image of the "tragic hero."
The reason the temporal travel spell couldn't be repeated was that it could only be used once, and of course it was in vain after all.
In the game, however, the player could choose to arrive in time. If you completed the side quest before advancing the main plot, you could warn the village, gather evidence against Valthor, face the controlled salamander and, in the end, break the flute. The beast would be freed from mental control, flee to the forest, and the village would survive. Upon returning to the present, the timeline would change: the ruins would disappear, and Gulbert would continue to exist as a truly prosperous village.
Zarkrion put a hand to his forehead.
"Grey Greenderson isn't here now..." he murmured. "That means I have to solve this problem myself."
The weight of responsibility fell on him. How was he supposed to do it alone? Directly warning the inhabitants would be useless: they would ignore him or flee in terror because of his draconic appearance. Even if someone believed him, the village had no military strength to face a giant salamander or Valthor's guards.
Gaining everyone's trust would take weeks, maybe months. He didn't have that much time. The calamity would happen in a matter of days, about 3 or 4 days.
Then he looked at the old woman and a spark of hope ignited.
"The mayor..." he said out loud. "Your husband is the mayor, right?"
The old woman nodded, still confused but willing to help.
"Yes, my dear Harlan has been the mayor for twenty years."
Zarkrion felt immense relief.
"Listen... could you take me to your husband, please? It's urgent. Very urgent."
The old woman looked at him for a second, evaluating him. She saw sincerity in his fiery eyes, and something more: a deep determination.
"Huh? You want to see my husband?"
Zarkrion nodded vehemently.
"Yes, please."
The old woman smiled warmly.
"Of course, no problem. Finish eating and I'll take you right now. Our house is two streets from here."
Zarkrion looked around as they collected the bowl and put out the fire. The crowd that had previously been watching them from afar, attracted by the irresistible aroma of the food, had completely dispersed. The streets were returning to their normal rhythm, as if they had never been there.
Zarkrion let out a short laugh.
"The nosy folks have already left."
The old woman laughed too, with a hoarse but lively laugh.
"News travels fast here, young man. But it also gets forgotten fast when there's no danger. Come on, walk with me."
...
...
The sun was slowly sinking on the horizon, tinting the sky with orange and pink tones that reflected on the red-tiled roofs of the village of Eldoria.
The last rays of light filtered between the houses, lengthening the shadows of the passersby who were returning to their homes. Birds with dark plumage flew through the air in flocks, heading toward the nearby trees to rest before night fell completely.
The air was becoming cooler, laden with the scent of damp earth and the distant smoke from some chimney that was beginning to be lit.
Zarkrion walked beside the old woman, adapting his long stride to her slow but steady pace. The woman's cane tapped softly on the cobblestones with each step, a rhythmic sound that accompanied the decreasing murmur of the market they were leaving behind.
It had taken them a good while to traverse the streets: first the main avenue, then a couple of narrow alleys flanked by two-story houses with balconies full of flower pots, and finally a more residential area where the dwellings were larger and the gardens more carefully tended.
Suddenly, the old woman stopped in front of a tall wrought-iron gate and smiled with satisfaction.
"We're here," she said with a happy voice, like someone presenting a long-kept treasure.
Zarkrion looked up and was impressed. Before him stood an immense house, the largest he had seen in the entire village. It was a solid construction of gray stone and dark wood, with three visible floors, tall windows framed in white, and a sloped roof covered with reddish tiles.
To one side, behind the gate, stretched a small garden full of raspberry bushes loaded with ripe fruits and young pines that perfumed the air with their resinous aroma. In front of the main entrance, a smaller iron door, attached to the main gate, allowed entry.
Zarkrion let out a low whistle of admiration.
"Nice house," he said sincerely. "Worthy of a mayor."
The old woman laughed softly, flattered.
"My Harlan always said that the house should reflect the responsibility of the position. Come, come in."
With a gesture of permission, the old woman opened the small iron door, which creaked slightly as it moved. Zarkrion followed her along a gravel path that wound through the garden to the massive oak main door.
The old woman knocked three times with the bronze knocker shaped like a lion's head. Instantly, the door opened delicately, revealing a young servant with brown hair tied in a braid and a gray uniform with a white apron.
The girl smiled upon seeing the old woman.
"My lady, I'm glad to see you back," she said with a light curtsy.
The old woman returned the smile, warm as always.
"Of course, dear. By the way, today we have a guest."
The servant, happy and curious, opened her mouth to ask.
"Really? Who is...?"
Her words froze in the air as her eyes landed on Zarkrion, who was entering right behind the old woman. The young woman became completely still, as if a statue of salt had replaced her.
Her gaze traveled over the dragon's human form: the semi-orange red hair that fell in wild strands to his shoulders, the yellowish eyes with semi-elongated pupils that shone like molten gold, the crimson red draconic horns that curved on the sides of his head, the folded wings of scales in the same tone that peeked from behind his back, and the scaly tail that moved slightly behind him.
And to top it off, Zarkrion as always wore his obsidian black chef's uniform, with golden details on the edges and a bright red gem in the center of the high collar, covered by a white apron with a symbol in the middle.
The servant's face paled until it took on a sickly purple tone. Drops of cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her hands trembled visibly as she clutched the edge of the door.
"G... go... good..." she stammered. "What a guest."
Quickly, she approached the old woman and whispered in her ear, though her trembling voice could be heard perfectly.
"My lady, with all due respect... are you sure that guest is human? Because I very much doubt it. Haven't you made a mistake?"
She paused and added in an even lower whisper, but still audible to Zarkrion's draconic ears:
"He has a very intimidating appearance... and ugly."
The old woman turned to her with narrowed eyes, clearly offended.
"Insolent girl!" she replied in a firm tone. "Are you implying that I'm senile?"
The servant took a step back, frightened.
"No, my lady, I just..."
The old woman raised a hand to silence her.
"This is a very special guest. Don't judge him by his appearance. That young man is extraordinary in the kitchen, and he seems to be lost. So treat him with the respect that any guest in this house deserves."
The girl sighed deeply, resigned, and then made a small awkward curtsy toward Zarkrion.
"Wel... welcome to the Cleaners' house," she said with a voice that still trembled a little.
Zarkrion, somewhat uncomfortable with the scene he had just witnessed, simply nodded his head, trying not to show how much the situation amused him internally. He was already used to that kind of reaction.
Minutes later, already inside the house, Zarkrion marveled at the elegance of the interior. The vestibule was spacious, with polished marble flooring that reflected the light from the oil lamps hanging on the walls. Oil paintings adorned the walls: family portraits of the Cleaners from different eras.
In one stood out the mayor Harlan, younger, next to his wife—the old woman beside him—and their four children: three women and one man, all with serious but proud expressions. Woven tapestries with scenes of harvests and festivals hung between the paintings, and decorative ceramic vases with fresh flowers perfumed the air.
The servant led them down a hallway to a cozy living room. The old woman indicated to Zarkrion to sit on a plush sofa upholstered in dark green velvet.
In front of him was a low noble wood table, with a glass jar full of colored candies, tea cups already cold from some previous visit, and several open books on local history. Shelves packed with leather-bound volumes covered two entire walls, from floor to ceiling.
Zarkrion sank into the sofa, feeling for the first time in hours a true rest.
"I hope everything goes well," he murmured to himself, relaxing his shoulders.
Then, with a worried sigh, he added in a low voice:
"I'm going to have to spend the night here, until everything is over... I don't know what Fariella is doing right now, but I hope she's okay."
At that precise moment, the living room door opened again. The old woman entered first, smiling, escorting a man who walked with a calm step but guided by his wife's arm. It was Mayor Harlan Cleaners.
He wore light and comfortable clothing: a white linen tunic with discreet embroidery, dark pants, and a wide-brimmed black hat that he still wore, as if he had just arrived from some business in the village.
His hands were veiny but well-groomed, with long fingers that denoted years of writing and official signatures. Short gray hair framed an aged but serene face, with deep wrinkles around the mouth and eyes.
However, the most evident thing, what jumped out at Zarkrion even before the man spoke, was that Harlan Cleaners was completely blind. His eyes, a dull gray without shine, stared straight ahead without focusing on anything, and he moved with the confidence that only habit and the guidance of someone who knows every corner of their home can give.
Zarkrion sat up slightly on the sofa, preparing for what was to come. The fate of the village—and perhaps his own—depended on what happened in that room in the next few minutes.