The Strange Invitation!

"Sorry about that, didn't mean to startle you," the old man said, raising his hands apologetically. He was bald with a few straggly hairs on his chin, his face weathered with wrinkles, and his eyes drooping with age.

"It's alright," Azrael replied, offering a reassuring nod.

"This tavern used to be the pride of our village, you know," the old man continued, his voice heavy with nostalgia. "One of the oldest inns. It had served lords and ladies alike, sired legends and heroes. Even a king stayed here once." He sighed deeply, lost in memories.

Azrael remained silent, offering his full attention.

"And now, it's gone," the old man concluded, his gaze falling to the ground as he tightly gripped his cane.

"Do you know how it happened?" Azrael inquired, his voice low and cautious.

"No. No one knows who started it," the old man replied cryptically. "Some people... they just have bad luck with them. Laying waste wherever their foot touches."

Azrael's eyes lingered on the charred remains of the tavern, but he could sense the old man's gaze fixed on him, scrutinizing him. There was an unsettling aura about the man's words, as if he knew more than he let on.

Azrael couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong here.

"I see... it is really unfortunate," Azrael replied, his gaze still fixed on the burnt tavern.

"Indeed. Indeed it is..." the old man nodded in agreement.

Azrael felt a sudden chill run down his spine, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

He glanced around and noticed that the chatter had ceased entirely. The once lively village had fallen eerily silent. No children played, no men bellowed, and no women gossiped. It was as if time itself had frozen.

A cold sweat broke out on Azrael's forehead as a sense of unease settled over him.

"Here," said the old man, extending a white handkerchief towards Azrael. "You seem to be sweating, young man. Take it."

Azrael regarded the man with a cautious eye, sensing an undercurrent of something unsettling beneath his friendly demeanor. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, as if a thousand eyes were trained on him from the shadows.

With a forced smile, Azrael accepted the handkerchief.

"Thank you, kind sir."

"That's alright, young man," the older man said, giving Azrael's shoulder a friendly pat. "Ah, where did you say you were from, young man? I've got a bad memory. With aging and all that stuff..."

Azrael turned to face the old man, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.

"I didn't mention where I'm from, Sir. You must be mistaken."

"Right... right, right. Where are my manners? Sorry about that, young man," the old man chuckled, sheepishly scratching his head.

"Take care, young man. Oh! It's almost lunch time. Do you want to eat something? Come on, we're having a community lunch mourning for the lost souls," the old man offered, his smile stretching a little too wide, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling brightness.

Azrael smiled back, but there was a tension in his voice as he declined.

"I appreciate the offer, but I must decline.Maybe next time."

"Are you sure? We have... special delicacies. Human heart and blood juice," the old man insisted.

"Thank you, sir, but I don't think I--" Azrael froze, his blood running cold as he processed the old man's words. "What did you say?"

"Goat heart, son... Goat heart and its blood juice. Haven't eaten something like that, have you? It's very healthy, very nourishing... and very tasty," the old man said, his smile stretching unnaturally wide again, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling light.

Azrael felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Something was deeply unsettling about the old man's words and demeanor. It sent shivers down his spine, raising every instinctual alarm within him.

"Come on, son, be a good lad and respect the dead. It's only for today, and besides, the departed would be pleased if we honored a traveler, especially such a fine young man like you. Come on," the old man urged Azrael with a persistence.

He didn't want to comply, not at all. It wasn't just reluctance; there was a deep-seated suspicion gnawing at him. Maybe it was guilt, or perhaps his innate sensitivity to the situation that made him feel so wary of this place and its inhabitants.

The thought that these villagers might somehow discover his role in the fire, that his actions had reduced this building to ashes, weighed heavily on him.

He couldn't bear the idea of them finding out the truth. These poor people deserved better than to be burdened with the knowledge of his misdeed.

He focused his magical senses, trying to sense any hint of magic from the old man. With caution, he directed his mana towards the hand resting on his shoulder, searching for any hidden mana. If the old man was concealing his mana, the sudden surge of Azrael's mana would likely cause him discomfort, unless he possessed some resistance.

However, to Azrael's surprise, he found nothing. There was no trace of mana within the old man, no sign of discomfort or resistance. His smile remained unchanged, his demeanor unaffected.

There was no hint of magical energy within him, that much was certain. Yet, despite the lack of mana, the old man's eerie demeanor and unsettling smile left Azrael feeling deeply suspicious.

He glanced back at the villagers, observing their grief-stricken faces. Their eyes reflected the pain of loss, and their hunched postures betrayed the weight of their sorrow.

Despite his suspicions, they appeared harmless, merely mourning their losses in their own way.

With a heavy heart, Azrael conceded to the old man's offer. He could feel the hunger gnawing at his stomach. After all, he hadn't had a proper meal in more than a few days. Suppressing his unease, he nodded in agreement.

"I suppose I am hungry, too," he replied softly, his voice barely audible over the somber atmosphere enveloping the village.