Chapter 4
687 Words
The First Customer’s Point of View
The storm had cursed the land that night.
The rain poured like an endless flood, washing filth and fortune alike into the gutters of the cobblestone streets. The air smelled of iron and rot, and the lightning clawed the sky like the fury of forgotten gods.
I was exhausted. My body ached from fighting through the swamps on the borderlands, and the damp had seeped into my bones. Every step back toward the city felt heavier than the last. My coin pouch was nearly empty, my blade chipped, my spirit worn thin.
I thought I would collapse in the mud, nameless and forgotten.
But then… I saw it.
A light in the distance. A tavern’s glow, warm and golden through the sheets of rain.
“…An inn?” I muttered, half-dreaming.
I staggered forward, my boots sloshing through puddles, and shoved open the door.
The storm’s roar dulled behind me.
Inside was stillness. Lanternlight flickered against polished wood. Bottles gleamed like jewels on the shelves. And behind the counter—
Him.
The Keeper.
He stood tall, calm, and otherworldly, his presence at once ordinary and divine. His eyes gleamed with the strange knowledge of one who had seen far beyond mortal horizons.
For a moment, I could not breathe. Had I stumbled into a sacred hall instead of a tavern?
But my body gave out before my spirit could decide. I collapsed onto a stool, my lips dry and cracked.
“…Innkeeper… a drink…”
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I expected watered ale. Stale bread. Perhaps pity.
What I received instead… was revelation.
The Keeper moved without hesitation. His hands were steady, graceful, precise. Bottles whispered open under his touch. A vessel of metal shimmered in his grasp, filled with strange liquids that seemed to sing when they met the ice.
Clink. Swish. Thump.
The sound was unlike anything I had ever heard—like a spell being woven, a ritual of alchemy performed before my weary eyes.
When he placed the glass before me, I thought I was dreaming again.
Golden liquid glowed within, crowned by a froth of purest white, and touched with crimson sigils that swirled like living fire.
“…What… is this…?” I asked, my voice trembling.
His reply was simple, yet profound.
“An Amaretto Sour.”
The words pierced me like lightning.
Amar. An ancient tongue. A word meaning love, or bitter. Etto. A diminutive suffix—small, hidden, delicate. And Sour. The sting of trial, the taste of hardship.
Love. Bitterness. Trial. All bound together in a single draught.
A prophecy disguised as a name.
I lifted it, my hands shaking. The aroma enveloped me—sweet almonds, sharp citrus, warmth like a hearth fire. I sipped.
And the world changed.
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The chill left my body instantly.
Strength flowed through my veins like molten silver. My fatigue melted, my heart steadied, my soul lifted.
It was as though fire and silk had intertwined inside me, burning away weakness, yet cradling me with comfort.
“…Marvelous,” I whispered. “Truly marvelous…”
I drank it all, desperate for every drop of salvation.
When the glass emptied, I felt reborn.
The Keeper’s eyes were steady, watching me with calm patience. And in that gaze, I knew—he was no mere innkeeper. He was a being of knowledge, a wielder of secrets, a sage cloaked in the garb of a common bartender.
I bowed, my heart overflowing with reverence.
“Great Keeper of the Bar… you have saved me. Please—accept my gratitude.”
From my pouch, I drew the last silver coin I owned. My final treasure. A meager gift, but one offered with sincerity.
He accepted it with a strange, almost pained look—perhaps he was not used to worship, though surely countless souls before me had knelt before his miracles.
When I left, the storm still raged. But it no longer felt like a curse.
For I carried within me the warmth of the Keeper’s Elixir.
And I swore, as I trudged into the night, that one day, I would return.
- Writer
