A Welcome of Dubious Sincerity

“This is The Last Home. It moves when it wants, keeps who it chooses, and doesn’t explain itself. You’ll be safe here—if you follow the rules.”

— Freya, Head of the Maids (and not your babysitter)

So. You Made It Through the Door

Maybe you were looking for a second chance.
Maybe you were running from the fifth.
Maybe you tripped over a collapsing story and fell sideways into a teacup.

Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. That means something — probably.

I don’t know what. I’m not the Inn.
I mop floors. I stab things. I drag fools out of fires when no one else bothers.
That’s it. That’s your welcome. Don’t expect it to be warm.

The Place That Isn’t a Place

The Inn isn’t a place, not in the way you think. It shows up when it wants to — when a story should have ended but didn’t, when someone important is about to break, when the world shrugs and says not like this.

On the outside it looks ordinary: a timbered inn on the roadside, lantern light in the windows, a door that opens just when you need one most. Inside, it feels alive. Firelight too warm to be just fire. Chairs that remember who usually sits in them. A bar that never quite runs dry.

And yes, before you ask — it probably is alive. It notices things. It laughs, in its own way. Dry sense of humour, the sort that shifts a corridor while you’re walking just to see if you notice. We try not to talk about it too loudly.

Don’t mistake the look for the truth. The Inn isn’t a building you can map, or a town you can reach. It doesn’t follow space or time. It follows need.

If it’s letting you stay, it’s because your story isn’t finished yet.

Why You’re Holding This (Blame Lars)

This Primer wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t Seraphis’s either.

Lars ordered it because he was tired of mopping up what was left of Patrons who didn’t make it through their first day. Exploded, dissolved, eaten, misplaced — you’d be amazed how often “catastrophic mess” was the outcome.

So here it is: a survival guide. Something to read before you end up as another stain on the carpets.

Who This Is Actually For

You’re not a guest. You’re not passing through. You’re part of it now.

This Primer is for:

• Wanderers who never quite fit,
• Survivors who should have been gone but aren’t,
• People whose stories refuse to end neatly,
• The unfinished, the unlucky, and the inconvenient.

If that sounds like you, then congratulations. The Inn noticed. That’s rarely a compliment.

What’s in the Pages You Haven’t Read Yet

In the chapters ahead, you’ll find:

• The rules of the Inn. Not laws. Truths. Things even the gods follow. (Sylvie got to those before I could stop her.)
• A few stories from the Taproom — rumours, legends, and questionable advice. (Mouse remembers everything. Unfortunately.)
• A tour of the Inn, assuming Rika hasn’t flattened a hallway again.
• Notes on gods, demons, and other divine disasters. Tess has… opinions.
• A guide to the factions, cults, clubs, and other nuisances eager to recruit you before you’ve finished your soup.
• And finally, what it’s like to live here day to day — the strange routines, the quiet rhythms, the odd comforts. Mama Jori will explain. You’ll listen.

Read it all, and you might even know enough not to die before dessert.

Three Rules, Engraved in Sarcasm

Don’t lie to the Library.
Don’t touch the sword behind the bar.
And don’t flirt with the Maids.

Yes, that includes me. No, I don’t care what you think you saw. The Maids are stronger than they look, stranger than they act, and none of us are safe to fall for.

If one of us likes you, you’re doomed.
If we don’t, you’ll wish we did.

One blush is not romance.
It’s a fuse being lit.

Final Thought

You’re here because the Inn let you in. Try not to make it regret that.

And before you ask — yes, the others insisted on adding their own wisdom after this. Don’t blame me for what you’re about to read.