A muffled cry jolted me from the couch—although a bit reluctantly as I had just begun to doze off. The sound of arrows whistling through the air hitched my breath as one lodged into the window, splintering the glass as cracks radiated outward from the hole.

The window, cold air quickly choking the carriage as it seeped through the hole, pounded my ears with frantic footsteps skittering against the ground and I cautiously peered out the glass. Three ragged figures illuminated only by the moonlight scampered after the cab, their bows drawn as they pelted the carriage with an onslaught of arrows.

"Damned bandits!" The driver cursed, and the crack of reins followed by the distraught steed breaking into a gallop nearly sent me barrelling into the door had Ken not shot his hand and grabbed my cape.

"What do we do?" I asked, heart thumping and wind flooding into my ears like the never-ending stream of panic that coursed throughout my body.

Ken's face flashed with panic, but he regained his composure quickly, reassuring me and Matilda. "We just need to stay put. One horse is enough to best five men in a race."

And so, with one hand on the side of the couch and the other clutching the bottom, the carriage rocked violently back and forth, the thunk of arrows hitting it a constant reminder to my already heightened senses. The lightbulb dangled in cue with the carriage, at times flickering wildly as if it, too, were in a frenzy.

For a few moments, when the barrage of arrows had grown increasingly rapid—almost stuttering as one came immediately after the other—and almost threatened to shatter the entire door, I had thought that one of them would land a lucky hit, lodge the arrow in between the wheels or maim the steed. But the wobbling cab limped forward, wheels groaning as they climbed over rocks and uneven terrain, and the shrill whinny of the steed as the driver lashed the reins desperately.

The last arrow bounced harmlessly off the side of the carriage, crashing to the ground where the wheels eagerly devoured them, the remaining arrowhead a testament to what had been a futile attempt to stop the cab. As the shouts and footsteps of the bandits faded, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and the steed slowed to a trot, the gentle plodding of hooves in cue with my heartbeat.

"Well, the driver's not going to be too happy about the window," Matilda quipped, pointing at the fractured glass that formed a spider web of cracks. A gentle breeze drifted through the window, tickling my cheek, and it didn't feel too bad in the stuffy, sweat-coated air.

Ken chuckled and reached up to straighten the lightbulb, tapping it a few times before it bathed the carriage in a dim glow. "If that's the first thing on his mind after this, I'd rather not know what else lives in that stingy head of his."

That brought another round of chuckles and snorts before a cold sweat overcame us as we realized the window wasn't exactly closed.

"Oh, whatever," Matilda said nonchalantly. "I already paid him enough gold to shut him up for a while—"

A prolonged creak sent goosebumps skittering on my skin as the carriage tilted sideways slowly at first, then a sickening crack sunk the carriage further before the back corner lodged into the ground with a soft thud.

"What in the world?" Matilda pushed herself up, the couch having slanted in a strange position, and heaved the door open with a shove. Ken and I followed suit, landing on the dirt road next to her, where tall grass and rambunctious weeds roamed along the side and stretched to the horizon, where little shapes jutted out to form the outline of a city. Another city stood at what seemed to be a few hundred paces away along the road, modest buildings surrounded by lesser houses whose illuminated windows seemed like twinkling stars against the dark canvas of night.

I turned around, the dirt seemingly latching onto the carriage as it sunk into the ground. A quick look at the crooked side and the long string of curses the driver spat out as he climbed off the whining steed confirmed my suspicions: a lone arrow had found its way into a crevice between the wheel and axle, and had loosened the wheel before it tumbled off a few paces away.

"Help me fetch that wheel, will ya?" The driver asked, and Ken walked down the road, picking up the wheel that lay uninspiringly by the grass.

The driver grunted in response, his mustache twitching, as he snatched the wheel from Ken's hands and began heaving the carriage up. Ken and I joined his efforts, grabbing a side, and Matilda shoved against the carriage to prop it up. With the help of a sturdy stick lying near the grass, the carriage stood up once more, beads of black paint rolling off its side, and the steed's tail swung back and forth happily as if a part of them had been completed.

"What's the city over there?" Ken asked, pointing towards the general direction of the closer one that seemed only to be a little stretch down the road.

"That, my good friend, would be Wynnville," the driver's expression wilted as he took a puff of water vapor, fogging the air around us. "Do be careful around there—crime lurks in every shadow and the black market is thriving."

"Wynnville," Matilda had an incomprehensible look on her face, her jaw set and her eyes narrowed to slits. "We should find a place to stay."

She stalked down the road, her black hair merging with the night, and each thud of her footsteps seemed to resonate a brewing anger in her stomach.

"Wait up!" Ken sprang after her, grabbing onto his hat as it was almost stolen by the wind, and I scrambled after the two. I waved goodbye to the driver and he returned the gesture. His gaze held a sense of tranquility, black pearls that sat calmly amidst the gray, stormy depths.

It was a serene scene: the night sky dotted with twinkling stars that seemed to form remnants of the late, the wind that whispered arcane stories into my ear, and the distant hum of city life that sent gentle shivers throughout my body. As the houses and buildings came closer into view, and the ambiance pounded against my ears, it appeared that the driver had been right—even at night, the city was like a sleepless child that tossed and turned in bed, and the blanket that covered them had been kicked off.

The buildings soon loomed over us and the houses didn't seem part of a doll's set anymore; they were quite the opposite: beige and orange wooden planks thrown together to form the shabby, rotting walls that seemed to peel right off, and stone tiles that looked as if they were going slip off the roof any second. The flickering glow of faulty light bulbs illuminated the windows and the surrounding atmosphere, casting eerie shadows that vanished and appeared suddenly.

The dirt road transitioned into a crudely constructed cobblestone street, cracks forming peculiar spiral patterns and it almost seemed as if the street would burst into hundreds of tiny cobblestone fragments as I stepped onto it. A cab passed by us as we headed down the block, the familiar plodding of hooves and creaking of old wheels calming me. I waved to the driver and he gave me a curt nod before returning his gaze to the street.

Besides the regular ambiance, there was a constant scurrying of feet that occasionally jolted me. From where I didn't know, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out. Crime was lurking in every shadow, as the driver said.

As we turned a corner, the buildings seemed to be even more susceptible to dilapidation: bricks crumbled under their own weight, windows breathed cold air into their shattered remains, and the tense atmosphere that hung over them was palpable. Some of them had ashen sides, a grim reminder of the incident years ago.

A hooded figure on the opposite side of the street flashed a dangerous look at us, a permanent scowl plastered on his scarred face before he whipped around the corner and disappeared into the shadows. We passed by another group who regarded us in a similar fashion, their eyes holding an unwavering gaze that spoke only of suspicion.

"You fellas know a place to stay?" Ken dared to speak up and they landed their wary eyes on him.

It was a moment before one of them said anything as their eyes trailed over us, searching for any sign of malice. A gray-haired individual, a plump, purple bruise bulging on his cheek, said gruffly, "There's a good tavern across the street and around the corner. There are decent beds and a hearty soup to wash down your worries."

He cackled, before limping off. It was then that I realized his leg was bent strangely and the trail of blood dripped that along the street led just around the corner.

An uneventful walk later, accompanied only by the gloomy atmosphere and wary footsteps, we arrived in front of the tavern, its construction a strange design as it seemed to widen the higher I looked. The second floor appeared to be like the shape of a large birdhouse with scratchy orange tiles for a roof and beige wooden planks for walls—a common building palette, it seemed.

Two translucent windows at the bottom of the tavern cast an orange glow around the exterior, and boisterous laughter and the hum of conversation filled my ears as Ken swung open the front door.

Oh, how the Traveler's Inn would have been put to shame! Behind the hubbub of laughter and shouting was a small bar where a tireless bartender stood grabbing and pouring beers, swiping off finished glasses with a swift motion, faster than my eyes could dart around. On the shelves against the wall were his arsenal, stacks on stacks of sparkling glasses that would have blinded me had it not been for the slightly dim lighting, and a bulging barrel that seeped foaming beer from a rusted spout.

On the side of the interior, beside the round tables that hosted a group of scruffy figures downing beer upon beer, foam dripping down the side of one's mouth, was the front desk. A baggy-eyed clerk whose hair was tied back in a neat bun sat wearily on a wooden stool sorting papers and dealing with the all too frequent complaint that was just an excuse to chat with her.

Ken stepped forward, but Matilda shot out her arm and blocked him. "Let me discuss the rooms with her—trust me, it'll go a lot faster. Besides," she fished out the pouch of coins in her pants pocket and jingled it, "I have the goods."

She walked forward, stopped by the front desk, and dumped a handful of silvers down. "Three rooms please—"

I glanced to my left, greeted with the sight of punches being thrown at a well-dressed man who collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down his face as he sputtered out incoherent words, pleading for mercy. Either the burly man was deaf or he liked to talk with fists, but without a second's hesitation, he sent a flurry of blood-staining strikes at the man's pretty face—bruised and beyond repair when the pummeling had stopped.

The clerk stood up, straightening out her white blouse, and just out a long sigh. It was then that I realized that the entire tavern had gone dead silent, couples still entangled in mid-dance, the bartender reaching for a glass, and one man silently gulped down his beer, not bothering to wipe the liquid off his face. "Everyone, feel free to resume your activity."

She caught my wary eye as she stalked towards the burly man, red-faced as he gaped at her.

"Just another day at the Cheers and Beers Tavern," She said, smirking at me and Ken's dumbfounded looks.

"Hudson!" She turned, shouting at the man who had begun slinking away only to be caught by her watchful eye. "Don't you dare try to run. You and I are going to have a good talk..."