N — Night at Katerina’s Rest

 

Where rumors, ale, and panic shaped the town’s decisions.

If Padua had a council chamber, it was Katerina’s Rest.

The tavern sat close enough to the Avon that the damp air carried the smell of river mud through the open shutters. By dusk the place was usually filled with the people who actually keep the town running, hunters, merchants, river folk, the occasional mercenary, and anyone else who would trade coin for a mug. News traveled fast there, though rarely in a straight line. A rumor whispered at one table became fact by the time it reached the next.

On the night people now refer to simply as that night, the mood shifted from lively to brittle in a matter of hours. Word of strange happenings along the riverbanks mixed with Ludo’s grim report and Cosetta’s increasingly sharp warnings. Every retelling added another detail: shapes in the fog, missing travelers, sounds in the woods that no one could quite explain. The ale flowed freely, but the laughter thinned as the stories stacked up.

By the time panic truly took hold, decisions were made whether anyone intended them or not. Volunteers argued over scouting the roads. Others insisted the gates should be barred. In the middle of it all, voices rose, plans formed, and the fragile sense of normalcy the town clung to began to crack.

Because in places like Padua, history rarely begins with a grand proclamation. More often, it starts in a crowded tavern, with too many rumors and too little imagination.