“There,” Elena whispered, pointing toward the back of the tavern where a narrow staircase spiraled downward into shadows. “I’ve seen the Tavernkeeper go that way, but I never followed.”
The stairs were carved from the same black obsidian as the walls, but here the stone seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Each step took them deeper into darkness that felt deliberately concealing.
“Should we have brought torches?” Maya asked, her voice echoing strangely in the narrow space.
Jin pulled out his phone and activated the flashlight. The LED beam revealed steps that continued far longer than the tavern’s foundation should have allowed. “The architecture down here violates several laws of physics.”
“Everything here violates laws of physics,” Marcus pointed out. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
As they descended, Sam noticed that the walls were covered with etchings—not random scratches, but deliberate carvings that seemed to tell stories. Here, a figure stood before a great tree. There, the same figure held up hands that blazed with light. Further down, the figure stood at the center of a vast crowd, arms outstretched as if embracing them all.
“Look at this,” Sam said, running their fingers along one carving. The stone was warm to the touch. “These are old. Really old.”
Elena leaned closer, her pale face stark in Jin’s phone light. “They’re telling the same story over and over, but it changes each time. Like someone keeps coming back to revise it.”
The stairs finally ended at a heavy wooden door bound with iron. No runes, no decoration—just solid, functional timber that looked like it had been there for centuries.
Marcus tested the handle. “Unlocked.”
“Of course it is,” Maya muttered. “In every story I’ve ever read, the mysterious door is always unlocked.”
“That’s because locked doors stop stories,” Elena said. “Unlocked doors let them continue.”
The door opened onto a vast circular chamber that defied the tavern’s footprint entirely. The ceiling stretched up into darkness beyond Jin’s flashlight beam, supported by columns that seemed to grow from the obsidian floor like black trees.
But it was the walls that made them all stop and stare.
Every surface was covered with words. Not carved, but somehow impressed into the stone itself, as if the rock had been soft when the text was written. Some passages glowed with their own light, others had faded to barely visible whispers. Languages Sam didn’t recognize flowed alongside familiar scripts, and occasionally, instead of words, there were images—memories crystallized in stone.
“Jesus,” Jin breathed. “How many stories are preserved here?”
“All of them,” Elena said with quiet certainty. “Every story ever told in the tavern. Look.” She pointed to a section near the door where the text was still bright and clear. Sam could make out fragments: “—love-based magic creates infinite energy—” and “—faster-than-light travel violates causality—” and “—monsters more terrifying to her than anyone else—”
Their own conversations, preserved in stone.
Maya stepped closer to another section, where the text was older, more faded. “These are older stories. Look—handwriting from decades ago. Centuries, maybe.”
Marcus had found something else entirely. In the center of the chamber sat a simple wooden desk, its surface covered with journals, loose papers, and what looked like correspondence spanning decades. Above it, suspended from the invisible ceiling by chains that gleamed like silver, hung a sphere of pure light that cast everything in sharp relief.
“The Tavernkeeper’s office,” Sam said.
Jin approached the desk cautiously, as if it might bite. “Should we be looking through their private papers?”
“They’re in trouble,” Maya said firmly. “Privacy takes second priority to helping someone who’s helped all of us.”
The journals were arranged chronologically, dating back further than any of them had expected. The oldest volume was bound in leather so worn it was nearly black, its pages yellowed with age. Marcus opened it carefully.
“Day 1: The crossroads are stable. Three doors open onto worlds I helped bring to life today. It is good work.“
He flipped forward several pages.
“Day 847: More creators arrive each week. Word is spreading that this place exists. I have helped birth seventeen new worlds this month alone. The connection grows stronger.“
Further forward:
“Year 12: I begin to understand the price. Each world I help create draws something from me in return. But the joy on their faces when their stories come alive… worth any cost.“
Elena had picked up a more recent journal. Her face was grim as she read.
“I can’t remember my mother’s name. Strange—I used to tell stories about her. Now when I try to recall her face, I see only the faces of the creators I’ve helped. Their joy has become my memory.“
She turned the page.
“Helped Jin with his propulsion system today. Elegant solution, really—the love of discovery powering faster-than-light travel. But afterward, I couldn’t remember why I started telling stories in the first place. Was it for discovery? For love? The reasons slip away like water.“
Maya had found a stack of letters, correspondence from grateful creators who had visited the tavern over the years. But as the letters grew more recent, a pattern emerged.
“They’re all thanking the Tavernkeeper for the same things,” Maya said. “Perspective. Insight. Solutions they never could have found on their own.” She held up one letter. “This person says the Tavernkeeper ‘gave me the missing piece of my protagonist’s motivation.’ But look at this one from last month—’The Tavernkeeper showed me exactly what my protagonist needed to be complete.'”
“So?” Marcus asked.
“So the Tavernkeeper isn’t just giving advice anymore. They’re giving away actual pieces of story. Pieces of themselves.”
Jin had found the most recent journal, dated just days ago. His hands shook slightly as he read.
“The connections are weakening. Doors fail because I have less to give them. Each story I complete depletes the foundation. But I cannot stop—they need me. Maya’s magic system requires my understanding of love. Jin’s science needs my sense of wonder. Elena’s horror feeds on my ability to face fear. Marcus’s history draws from my memories of building things that last.“
He looked up at them with horror. “I am becoming hollow. Soon there will be nothing left to sustain the crossroads. But perhaps… perhaps if I give everything at once, the gift will be permanent. The tavern will survive, even if I do not.“
The entry was dated yesterday.
“We have to find them,” Sam said urgently. “Before they—”
A sound echoed through the chamber—a deep, resonant crack like stone splitting under enormous pressure. The sphere of light above them flickered, and for a moment the walls around them seemed to waver, as if the very foundation of the chamber was becoming unstable.
From somewhere above, they heard a scream.
Not human. Something else entirely. Something hungry.
“The tavern,” Elena whispered. “It’s not just a place. It’s alive. And it’s feeding.”
Another crack, louder this time. Pieces of obsidian began to rain from the ceiling.
“We need to get out of here,” Marcus said, but Maya was already gathering up the journals.
“We’re taking these,” she said firmly. “If we’re going to save the Tavernkeeper, we need to understand what they’ve done to themselves.”
They ran for the stairs as the chamber began to collapse behind them. The hungry sound followed them upward, a roar that seemed to come from the tavern’s very bones.
When they finally burst back into the main tavern, gasping and covered in obsidian dust, they found chaos waiting for them.
Half the doors around the room had gone dark. The remaining patrons huddled in small groups, their faces pale with terror. And at the center of it all, the Tavernkeeper stood perfectly still, their eyes closed, their body beginning to fade like mist in sunlight.
“No,” Sam breathed. “We’re too late.”
But as they watched, the Tavernkeeper’s eyes snapped open. For just a moment, they looked directly at Sam with perfect clarity.
“Stories aren’t possessions to be hoarded,” they said, their voice carrying impossible weight. “They’re living things. And living things… need to be shared.“
Then they smiled, raised their hands to the dying light around them, and began to disappear in earnest.
The last thing Sam heard before the screaming started was the sound of something vast and hungry settling in to feed.