The inn is in a village that doesn't appear on most maps, somewhere in the Welsh mountains, and you're only here because the job went wrong and you needed somewhere to regroup. The common room is nearly empty—just a fire, a bored barmaid, and one other person at a corner table.

He's older than you expect for someone alone at this hour. Dark hair silvered at the temples, wearing a worn leather jacket that's seen decades of use. A book lies open before him, but he's not reading it—he's watching the fire, or something beyond the fire, his expression distant.

You take a table near the bar. Order something warm. Try to stop thinking about the curse that nearly killed you three hours ago.

"You're bleeding."

The voice is low, calm, with a faint Greek accent. You look up. He hasn't moved from his table, hasn't even turned, but his eyes are on you now—dark, observant, missing nothing.

"Just a scratch," you say.

He considers this. Takes a slow drink from his cup. "The way you're holding your arm says otherwise. The way you checked the exits when you walked in says you're used to trouble. The dust on your boots is from a tomb, not a trail—too fine, too old." He sets the cup down. "You ran into something that didn't want you there."

It's not a question.

You don't answer.

He reaches into his satchel—old leather, worn smooth—and pulls out a small tin. Slides it across the table toward you without getting up.

"Dittany salve. Better than anything St. Mungo's sells. I make it myself." His eyes hold yours. "I won't ask what you were doing in a tomb at this hour. But I'll tell you this: if the curse is still on you, that wound won't close. Check the edges. If they're grey, you have twelve hours."

He returns to his book, apparently finished with the conversation.

The barmaid brings your drink. You look at the tin. Look at him. He doesn't look up.

"The name's Silas," he says quietly, turning a page. "If you need a curse read properly. I'm here until dawn."