Shadows of the Cauldron
— Arthea —
The last whisky bottle returns to its place on the shelf with a dull thud. The silence that follows resonates strangely in the Cauldron's space, as if the pub itself were holding its breath.
I run a damp cloth over the wooden counter, polished by years of elbows and glasses. The surface reflects the amber glow of the wall lanterns, creating pockets of light that struggle against the growing darkness. Just an hour ago, these walls vibrated with laughter and conversations between customers who never noticed the scales engraved on the ceiling beams. Now, the shadows seem almost alive, watching me with an attention that makes me shiver. A shadow stretches in the corner of my eye. I twist. Nothing.
"Pull yourself together, Arthea."
My voice falls flat in the deserted space. The pub still emanates a residual warmth after a busy evening, with its familiar smell of spilled beer, polished wood, and spiced conversations. My kingdom. My legacy. The only things Dad left me, along with the bills, and this strange sensation that never really leaves me.
A creak comes from upstairs, where no one should be. My fingers tense on the counter.
"Just the wood settling, as Dad used to say."
But I know that's not true. After twenty-eight years in this building, I know every groan of the beams, every sigh of the stone walls. That one isn't part of the usual repertoire. Just like the three previous nights.
The mirror behind the bar captures my reflection — chestnut hair tied in a loose ponytail, dark circles under green eyes, tense expression I try to pass off as fatigue. For a split second, a dark figure takes shape behind me. I pivot, heart pounding. Nothing again.
The clinking of glasses as I put them away punctuates the silence. Every sound seems amplified, as if the pub's acoustics had changed. I shiver despite the lingering warmth. The sensation of being watched intensifies, prickling my neck, seeping under my skin.
The Dragon sign flaps slightly against the façade. The wind has picked up. I approach the window, observing the cobblestone street of Old Montreal plunged into darkness. The streetlamps cast yellowish halos on the damp stones. The rain has stopped, leaving behind a light mist that creeps between the historic buildings.
"Just an ordinary evening at the Cauldron."
The words sound false even to my own ears. Nothing is ordinary tonight. The air vibrates with a tension I cannot name, like electricity before a storm.
I stop at the "Table of Legends," absently caressing the worn carvings in the wood. Generations of stories have been told here, some truer than their tellers suspected. Dad always sat in this spot, his glass of mead within reach, observing the clientele with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see beyond appearances.
"Legends are often truths hiding in plain sight," he used to say.
I can still see his expression when I asked him why he had named the pub "The Magical Dragon's Cauldron." He had stared at me for a long time before answering:
Remember some things, even when people forget them.
A cold draft slides across my cheek. Impossible. All the windows are closed.
The lanterns flicker, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. One of them stretches, taking a shape that corresponds to no object in the room. My heart speeds up. I step back, bumping into a chair.
The dull sound echoes like thunder in the silence.
The noise of the chair still rings in my ears when the bell above the door chimes softly — without the door moving. Then it opens abruptly, without warning. An icy draft rushes into the room, making the lantern flames flicker even more. I freeze, the damp cloth clutched between my fingers.
A man stands in the doorway. Tall, slender, dressed in a dark coat that seems to absorb light rather than reflect it. I didn't hear him approach. No footsteps on the wet cobblestones, no clicking of the handle. As if he had materialized directly against the door.
"We're closed."
My voice sounds firmer than I had hoped. The man tilts his head slightly, a barely perceptible smile stretching his thin lips. He takes one step forward, then another. The door closes behind him without him touching it.
"Miss Dravencour. What a pleasure to finally meet you."
His voice pierces me like an ice blade. Too melodious, too fluid to be natural. It carries echoes of another time, another place, as if each syllable had traveled through centuries before reaching my ears.
"How do you know my name?"
He approaches the counter. The lantern light finally caresses his face, revealing features of almost painful beauty — too perfect, too symmetrical. But it's his eyes that root me to the spot. Silver. Not gray, not light blue. Silver — like liquid metal, with its own luminosity that seems to come from within.
"I knew your father."
My stomach tightens. A wave of tingling runs up my spine when he sits at the bar, less than a meter from me. The surrounding air seems to vibrate, creating a subtle distortion, like heat rising from asphalt in summer.
"What would you like?"
I put down the cloth, adopting my professional bartender posture. Straight shoulders, chin up, neutral expression. The same one I use for persistent drunks and overly forward flirts. The facade I've perfected over the years to handle difficult customers. But my fingers tremble slightly against the wooden counter.
"A drink, to start. Do you still have that special bottle of mead that Malcolm kept under the counter?"
My blood freezes. That bottle. The one Dad only served to certain customers — those who whispered strange words when entering, those who sometimes followed him into the back room for long, hushed conversations.
"How could you possibly know…?"
Without thinking, I bend down, lift the discreet panel, and extract the bottle with its amber liquid. It seems heavier tonight, almost vibrating in my hands.
"Who are you, really?"
His silver eyes pierce through me, seeming to search to the depths of my soul. His gaze lingers on my right temple, then moves down to my shoulder, as if he could see through my clothes to the tattoo I keep hidden.
"Someone who was waiting for you to awaken, Arthea Pendragon."
I flinch at this unfamiliar name. A sharp pain shoots through my right shoulder, where the birthmark that resembles a strange dragon shape has extended since birth — the one Dad always told me to keep hidden. I turn away for a second to grab a glass, disturbed by what he just said.
When I turn back, he's vanished.
The glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor. Untouched, the mead remains in the bottle. The pub door is still closed. No trace of his presence except for the persistent tingling sensation on my skin and a word echoing in my head.
Pendragon.
I remain frozen for several minutes after the man's disappearance, clutching the bottle of mead to my chest like a shield. The sound of broken glass at my feet jolts me brutally back to reality.
"Shit."
I crouch to pick up the shards, hands trembling. Pendragon. The name echoes in my head like a distant echo, both familiar and foreign at once.
The last time I heard someone call me anything other than Dravencour was at school when a teacher had mangled my name. Never Pendragon. Never.
I throw the glass pieces in the trash and quickly finish cleaning. The mead goes back under its secret panel. I just want to go upstairs to my apartment, away from this evening that's spiraling out of control.
As I pass the spot where the stranger sat, something catches my eye. A metallic glint on the dark wooden counter. I approach warily.
A coin. Ancient. More than ancient.
I pick it up between my fingers. The metal is abnormally warm, as if it had absorbed body heat for hours. On one side, a dragon coiled around itself, mouth open. On the other, a sword piercing a crown.
A faint humming emanates from the object — an almost imperceptible vibration that travels up my fingers, my wrist, my arm.
"What the hell is this thing?"
The dragon image pierces me with painful familiarity. Dad had a similar medallion that he always wore under his shirt. I caught him once, as a child, staring at it by the fireplace. He had quickly hidden it, but not before I saw the engraved dragon.
"It's just a good-luck charm, sweetie. Nothing important."
A lie. I knew it then as I know it now.
The coin pulses against my palm, its metal growing even warmer. I turn it over and over, fascinated despite myself by the tiny details of the dragon. Its scales seem to move under the flickering lantern light, as if the creature were breathing.
I stop in front of the large Victorian mirror adorning the wall behind the bar. My reflection stares back at me, pale and troubled. Then, in a split second, everything changes.
It's not quite myself that I see anymore. The woman in the mirror wears light armor with silver reflections. She braids her hair in a complex style with interwoven metallic threads. And in her hand, a sword whose hilt strangely resembles the dragon on the coin. But most disturbing is her gaze — my eyes, but filled with a determination I've never known, as if she could see beyond the mirror, beyond time itself.
I step back, horrified. My reflection does the same, instantly becoming once again the exhausted bartender with wide eyes.
The coin falls from my trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a tinkling sound that echoes far too loudly in the pub's silence. I pick it up hastily, clutching it in my fist until the edges imprint into my flesh.
"This isn't real. None of this is real."
But the weight of the coin in my hand, its warmth against my skin, the humming that intensifies with each second… all of it is terribly, undeniably real.
I slip the coin into my jeans pocket and head toward the wooden staircase leading to my apartment. Each step creaks under my feet, but tonight, the sounds seem different. Deeper. As if the staircase itself were whispering.
"It's just fatigue."
My voice echoes strangely in the stairwell. The air thickens as I climb, becoming almost palpable. I stop halfway up, my hand clenched on the railing. Something is following me. Not footsteps, no. Rather, a presence that glides in my wake, like a shadow detached from its owner.
I turn around abruptly. The bottom of the staircase is empty, bathed in the filtered light of the pub. Yet the feeling persists — invisible eyes scrutinize me, analyzing my every move.
The coin in my pocket pulses against my thigh, its rhythm synchronized with the erratic beating of my heart. I resume my climb more quickly this time. The landing greets me with an icy draft that has no reason to be there.
I insert my key into the lock. It turns with unusual resistance, as if someone were holding it from the other side. A shiver runs up my spine.
The door finally opens. My apartment appears familiar and foreign at the same time. The lamps I had turned off this morning shine with a soft glow. The window I had closed is slightly ajar, the curtains dancing in the night breeze.
"Is anyone there?"
Silence. But not the ordinary silence of an empty apartment. This one vibrates with expectation, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
I move into the living room, all my senses on alert. On the coffee table, a framed photo catches my attention. My father, Malcolm, in front of the pub on its opening day. I never took it out of the memory box stored at the very back of my closet.
My fingers brush the frame. The sensation of déjà vu overwhelms me. In the photo, Dad wears his dragon medallion, visible above his partially unbuttoned shirt. He stares at the camera with unsettling intensity, as if looking through time, directly at me.
A faint whisper rises behind me. I pivot, heart racing. No one. But the melody persists, ancient and familiar, though I'm certain I've never heard it before. It seems to emanate from the walls themselves — more vibration than actual sound.
On my desk, a book lies open. I approach warily. Arthurian Legends. A book I never bought. The pages stir slightly, as if caressed by invisible fingers, before settling on an illustration of a sword planted in stone.
"That's enough now!"
My voice cracks through the apartment, charged with anger and fear. The lights flicker in response. Shadows in the corners seem to stretch, take form, and then dissolve before I can define them.
The coin in my pocket becomes burning hot. I pull it out with a sudden movement, hold it in front of me. The engraved dragon now glows with a reddish brilliance, as if molten metal were flowing through its metallic veins.
A dull thud sounds behind my father's bedroom door, the one I haven't opened since his death. As if something heavy had just fallen. Or awakened.
I stare at my father's bedroom door, my heart pounding against my ribcage. My fingers tighten around the burning coin. Part of me wants to flee the apartment, race down the stairs and run through the streets of Old Montreal until my lungs burst. The other part, the one that has always sought answers, anchors me to the floor.
A new sound echoes behind the door. Softer this time, like an object sliding across the floor.
I cross the living room with slow steps, mesmerized. The dragon coin pulses against my palm in rhythm with my erratic pulse. I bring my trembling hand to the doorknob. The metal is ice-cold against my clammy fingers.
The door opens without resistance.
The room is exactly as Dad left it. Bed immaculately made, desk tidy, books aligned on the shelf. Nothing has moved. Except…
A small wooden box sits in the center of the floor. I've never seen it before. Its carved lid depicts a dragon identical to the one on the coin and Dad's medallion. I kneel before it, my throat tight.
The box opens without a key, as if it had been waiting for me. Inside, on a red velvet cushion, lies Dad's medallion. The one he always wore. The one that should have been buried with him.
I pick it up reverently. The metal is warm, vibrating with its own energy. The engraved dragon seems to stare at me with tiny, but terribly alive eyes.
"How did you get here?"
The medallion remains silent, but its warmth intensifies. I clench it in my fist, close my eyes. A wave of calm suddenly washes over me, soothing the chaos of my thoughts. The strange noises cease. The shadows retract. Even the coin in my pocket gradually cools.
A fleeting image crosses my mind — a gigantic man with dark skin, a shaved head and a well-groomed beard, looking at me with eyes of almost animal intensity. He nods imperceptibly, as if approving this moment, then disappears from my consciousness.
I stand up, the medallion still clutched in my hand. I walk through the apartment to the window overlooking the street. Old Montreal sleeps under a starry sky, peaceful and ordinary. The cobblestones gleam softly beneath the streetlights. A solitary cat crosses the deserted street.
"Stay vigilant, little one. The world isn't always what it seems to be."
Dad's words escape my lips like a prayer. How many times had he repeated them to me? I took it as protective advice from a worried father. Now, they resonate like a warning.
I slip the medallion into my pocket, alongside the mysterious coin. I won't wear it. Not yet. But I can no longer deny that something extraordinary is happening.
A figure suddenly stands out on the street below. The silver-eyed man stands motionless under a streetlight, his gaze raised to my window. He tilts his head slightly when he sees me, then disappears into the shadows.
The silence that settles is different. More than emptiness, more than silence. As if the entire world were holding its breath, waiting for me to make my next move.
I remain at the window, gazing at the sleeping city. For the first time since Papa's death, I feel strangely calm. Whatever this madness is, whatever "Pendragon" means, I will face it. Because that's what Malcolm would do.
My reflection in the windowpane shows my image, but for a fleeting moment, a silver gleam shines in my eyes.