Day 5: The Cellar Beneath Gottfried’s Inn

Gottfried’s a shrewd one, make no mistake. Folks drink their fill upstairs, singing and stamping, never knowing what lies beneath their feet. That cellar of his, stone-laid, old as the town itself, he cleared the middle clean, built a ring of torches round it, and calls it his “Friendly Competition.”

Travelers are his guests of choice. Mercenaries, wanderers, men with coin and tempers both. The locals think the place still holds wine and spare stools, but when the bells strike midnight, the air below grows thick with shouting. You can hear the echoes in the walls if you listen hard enough, fists on flesh, bets changing hands, prayers whispered between blows.

Gottfried swears it’s harmless sport. Maybe so. But those stones remember. They’ve soaked more than ale over the years.