Excerpts cozy fantasy Read an Excerpt From The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance by Chiara Bullen An aspiring scholar is sent to research the mysteries of an adventurer’s inn, only to uncover a centuries-old secret—and find true friendship. By Chiara Bullen | Published on June 10, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance, a new cozy fantasy by Chiara Bullen publishing with Del Rey on July 7th. Mount Vengeance is legendary. For most, it’s an adventure or a quest to prove themselves worthy of fame and glory. For Ainsworth Gladsly, it’s the perfect thesis material.Ainsworth is an ambitious research fellow and up-and-coming historian, finally ready to make his mark on the world. When his supervisor learns of the rumored Misnich Inn at the foot of Mount Vengeance, she sends Ainsworth to be the first to document the exploits of the bold adventurers who seek to face the perils of the mountain and the dragon said to inhabit it.The inn is far from the sophisticated city life he’s grown to love, but even as he grudgingly warms to its rustic charm—and its lovely innkeeper, Honey—the mystery of the mountain refuses to reveal itself. Worse, Ainsworth can’t find evidence that anyone has ever undertaken the climb. Even the bravest warriors who stay at the inn turn away from Mount Vengeance the next day.With Ainsworth’s reputation on the line, he can’t allow this mystery to remain unsolved—even if he has to push the adventurers up the mountain himself. Chapter 1 Ainsworth Gladsly assumed the moment he finally spotted the Misnich Inn would be a magnificent one—a moment worthy of the four-week torment of a journey he had undertaken to find it. He had pictured himself standing atop a cresting hill, the fresh breeze laced with wondrous isolation stirring his impeccable hair and rippling his fine, forest-green cloak as the white stone of the inn gleamed before him. At this point, his imagination told him, he would feel overcome with satisfaction that he was on the correct path—literally, yes, but also the one that would lead his research career to new heights. In a flash of clarity, the kind of brilliance that often struck him at his desk in his beloved Skarrow Library, he would no longer doubt Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him to this isolated, wretched corner of the kingdom. He would also no longer pine for the kinds of projects he preferred: thorough research conducted in city archives or scouring for treasures in the attics of grand homes whose heritages lingered forgotten until Ainsworth’s expertise liberated them from confinement. Yes, when he spotted the inn, all would be well in his troubled heart. Unlike most of Ainsworth’s theories, this one did not turn out as planned. For one thing, the atrocious and unpredictable weather he experienced as he neared the foot of Mount Vengeance—home to the Misnich Inn, according to his great-grandfather—was an unwelcome surprise. He was not usually so thoughtless in his assertions, but his initial reluctance to partake in this study had clouded his judgment more than the mist that obscured the view in front of him. His cloak, never needing to protect him from more than the drizzle that found its way through the towering spires of Hinslyth city, seemed to drag the rest of him and his attire down with its sodden weight. Water seeped through, into his shirt, his breeches, and worst of all his silk stockings. They were his last pair, which he had saved for the final stretch of the journey, along with his sharpest trousers and gold-buckled suspenders. He had intended to be the picture of a sophisticated scholar upon his arrival—the savior of Misnich Inn; someone to finally record and tell the story of its existence and its guests. And my, how well dressed, to boot! But he was far from the image of scholarly sophistication as he approached his destination. Utterly bedraggled, he suspected he would be mistaken for some wandering, weak adventurer instead. This was exactly why he preferred not to embark upon fieldwork beyond the major cities. When he had spent his boyhood dreaming of academic prestige and scholarly elegance, it certainly did not involve the current quantity of mud splattered all over him. He narrowed his eyes against the relentless lashing of the rain. It had been hours since he set out that morning—he had expected to arrive by now. The weather was far too foul to bring out his map, however, and it showed little sign of easing up. Once again he turned to look behind him, hoping to spot actual adventurers seeking the last haven of comfort the Misnich Inn would offer to those journeying on to Mount Vengeance. He began to fret, yet again, that the inn did not actually exist, and that all the hardship of the past few weeks would be for nothing. All he had to go on was a letter and a hand-drawn map from his great-grandfather that mentioned the inn some fifty years ago, and the reassurances from folk in the local region that, yes, adventurers did still pass through seeking the Misnich Inn’s respite before they took on the dark magical beasts of the mountain or sought the dragon’s hoard rumored to linger atop it. So why had Ainsworth not encountered any adventurers heading this way? The Misnich Inn, if it was truly down the hill in front of Ainsworth, was perhaps the most elusive stopping point for travelers in existence. As he started his trudging descent, water seeping from the saturated earth to fill his boots, he thought: Surely an inn such as this, existing to exclusively host heroes and hardy adventuring groups, would do more to distinguish itself than relying on vague, word-of-mouth rumors? What sort of inn didn’t even put up a sign pointing you in the right direction? The sort that did not want to be visited, the inquisitive part of Ainsworth wondered. Or one that did not exist at all. Buy the Book The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance Chiara Bullen Buy Book The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance Chiara Bullen Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Oh please, let that not be the case! With each step he took down the hill, he bemoaned Heritage Master Lyria’s decision to send him here. As an adult, Ainsworth barely traveled outside Hinslyth if he could help it. When research demanded it, he had done so comfortably, employing a plush carriage led by horses and a capable driver to traverse the Wildroads that connected the populous settlements of the Kingdom of Saltquart. There had been no such comforts to be found on this trip. When it became apparent as he got closer to the border of the kingdom—and subsequently to Mount Vengeance—that no one but the hardiest of adventurers came this far, and that comfortable passage could not be easily booked within the budget of his research grant, Ainsworth had initially considered turning back. For how could he, an esteemed research fellow of the Skarrow Library, be expected to traverse over mountains, across forests, and through backwater villages on foot? It simply was unfathomable! But despite the indignity of the journey—despite the fact he should, by rights, be back in Hinslyth pursing the project of his dreams instead—he knew he could not turn back. Lyria would not have it. She had been insistent that this project could produce the kind of career-defining research that would see him propelled to the top of his field. Plus, what would Enach think if Ainsworth came back a failure? And so he had carried on. Ainsworth now cursed under his breath as he almost lost his footing on the treacherous, slippery hill that, according to the map, was his final stretch of the journey. He held on tight to that thought until his feet finally met what felt like a purposefully crafted path, and his heart leapt when, after a quick scurry along the first mercifully flat surface he had encountered in a week, the Misnich Inn seemed to appear as if from nowhere. The rational side of him knew it was because the wind had picked up just as the rain died down, lifting some of the mist obscuring his vision, but he could not rid himself of the notion that the inn had appeared to him just as he wished to truly find it. Relief that it actually existed, that he had a warm place to rest his head that night, almost sent him to his knees. He was already filthy, soaking, and loath to add yet more stains to his attire, so he held himself together and took another step forward instead. And maybe there was at least some glory in the moment as his attention fixed on the large wooden door slotted into white stone at the end of the path. High, arched windows with gilded frames were peppered along each wall of the two-story building, and the golden light seeping from them was almost enough to warm him from the inside out, even as the rain-slicked slate roof served as a reminder of his sodden condition. He picked up the pace in his eagerness to gain shelter, stumbling a few times in his enthusiasm. Meaning there was nothing magnificent about the way Ainsworth arrived at the Misnich Inn. Nor was there anything magnificent about the stern-faced guard standing, arms folded, in front of it. Ainsworth straightened as he faced the final hurdle between the past grueling four weeks and what would hopefully be a roaring fireplace and a sip or two of fine wine. The guard was a head shorter than him, and despite the dreadful conditions, she stood as dry and untouched by the rain as though she had basked in sunshine all day. He watched as droplets hit a small barrier just above the surface of her skin before evaporating. A sharp silver-gray bob cut off just below her pointed ears, which were similar to his own. Her eyes briefly flitted above Ainsworth’s head, likely taking in his antlers. They were rather striking—but the guard didn’t look very impressed. “Good day, ma’am! Do not we owe thanks to the Matron for this fine weather we are having?” Ainsworth declared with a quick, conspiratorial wink. Such humor was safe, he thought, for surely even the devout could not find fault in tasking their deity for the weather! But the guard’s expression remained stony. Her face seemed much too young to suit her grayish hair, Ainsworth thought, and her eyes were sharply blue, apparent even in the dim, fading light of the day. She offered no reply. “Erm…” Ainsworth cleared his throat. “My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I seek a room for the night. May I enter?” He resisted the urge to point to the water droplets falling steadily from his antlers. No response. “I— Does your position here imply that the rooms are fully occupied?” Again, silence. “Is it gold you require?” He rummaged under the damp fabric of his cloak to retrieve his coin pouch. His thumb brushed the golden charm of a snowdrop attached to its drawstring. “How much for entry?” Finally, she raised a silver brow and spoke. “I do not want coin.” Ainsworth, exasperated, stuffed his coin pouch back into his pocket. “Then what do you want? Please, it is cold and I am soaked. We don’t all have the ability to cast such a practical spell, you know!” The guard jerked her head, indicating the space behind him. “Looks like you can cast something, at least.” Ah. He turned to the trunk he had enchanted to levitate and follow behind him. It was drooping precariously close to the ground, and if he was not admitted soon, he would have no energy to keep it afloat. “Well, does it please you to know that such an effort is the best of my spellcasting abilities?” Ainsworth rubbed his forehead. “Please, may I—?” A rush of warmth and light spilled out from behind the guard as the door creaked open. “Ashe? Is something wrong? Oh goodness! Hello!” The figure peering from behind the door clutched an empty tray against her chest like a small, makeshift shield. Behind it, full white skirts were restrained behind a brown apron. She initially poked her head out, then quickly withdrew again with a grimace when she felt the rain hit her. Two small, curled white horns stuck out from a mass of black, loosely curling hair that fell past her shoulders, stark against cool teal skin. Her golden eyes shining beneath the wisps of hair covering her forehead were akin to the amber glow of warmth that radiated from the inn. Ainsworth also noted the presence of a pointed tail resting by her scuffed boots; this could only belong to a tyflan. Ainsworth sighed before replying. Keeping up courtesy despite the heady weight of exhaustion, as well as his rising irritation at this entire assignment and the guard in front of him, was no small feat. “Good day, ma’am. This guard is refusing entry to this establishment.” “Ashe! Let the poor fellow inside. Look at the state of him!” Ainsworth bristled. She was not exactly the epitome of style herself! Ashe shrugged and shifted the long, gnarled staff she held from one hand to another. “I do not like the look of him, Honey.” “Well, I never—!” Ainsworth started, but he was quickly drowned out by the rushed apologies of what he now suspected was the innkeeper. “Ashe, we do not refuse entry to any adventurers! Let him pass, please,” the figure—Honey?—pleaded. Ainsworth’s relief was short-lived as Ashe replied, “He is not an adventurer.” She delivered another jerk of the chin toward his floating trunk. “He is some sort of merchant. A salesman, perhaps. Just look at the size of that trunk—I’ve never seen anything like it.” He reddened. His research materials, and fine clothes to uphold his reputation as a scholar, required such a sizable trunk! “I am not a merchant. And I’ll have you know, my trunk was custom-made in Hinslyth, thank you very much!” He was truly getting sick of her attitude, and the drifting, savory scent of whatever food was being prepared inside was doing nothing to improve his mood. “Oh?” Honey cocked her head as she looked him up and down. “Well, if you aren’t a merchant, then who are you? Why are you here?” He was aghast. “I—I have my reasons, but what kind of inn makes a paying guest justify their reasons for staying?” “This one!” Ashe replied, at the same time as Honey mumbled: “You have a point, I suppose.” Ashe threw him a foul look. “What reasons, then?” The innkeeper put her hand on Ashe’s shoulder, passing through the barrier cast against the rain. They looked to be of a similar age. If they had the same brief human life span that Ainsworth did, he’d place them somewhere in their mid-twenties. “How about we let him explain inside, after he’s warm and dry?” “That would be very much appreciated!” Ainsworth huffed, glaring at Ashe when she finally stepped aside. Honey spun on her heels and beckoned him forward. Ashe’s unwelcoming behavior had put Ainsworth on edge, deepening his misery while riling his temper—so much so that he barely registered the significance of crossing the threshold. He was finally here—firmly on the way to being the first scholar to record the tales of adventurers who took on Mount Vengeance, and to give an account of the strange inn that offered them respite before the task. And that had to be a good thing, right? He quickly found himself in what would be the communal dwelling space of the Misnich Inn, had there been anyone else to share it with. Just beyond the doorway to the right, Honey hopped behind a small administrative counter topped with a bronze till and a scattering of scrolls. Behind her and dangling from hooks on the wall, keys brightly reflected the light of the blazing hearth on the opposite side of the room. Between hearth and counter sat an array of empty, round wooden tables and slim chairs that would have been rustic in style if not for the intricate carving of what looked like ivy leaves adorning the backs. The carvings mirrored the ivy that swirled and spun around the thick beams of the high ceilings, with some strands trailing down as though striving to reach the inhabitants below. Ainsworth had a potted ivy plant back at his rooms at Skarrow, but he had never considered letting it run quite so riot. Irritably, he brushed some away from his antlers before they got tangled. “Do we have a guest?” wheezed a voice. Ainsworth carefully moved a dense bundle of leaves out of his way and cleared a line of sight to the bar. The scowling eyes of a dwarf, almost hidden under thick brows and a shock of wispy red hair, peered over the counter. “Yes, we do, Bren!” Honey said. “Yes, we do,” she added in a whisper, as if to only herself. Ainsworth cleared his throat. “Well, then. I require a private room—one bed, and a desk, preferably.” Honey gave an apologetic smile. “None of our rooms have a desk, I’m afraid. Nor do any contain only one bed. We don’t offer private accommodation.” “Well, that’s just marvelous,” he muttered. At least, he supposed as he surveyed the room, there was no shortage of tables available. “Very well. I’ll take a bed in the smallest room, please. Will this be enough to stay for a moon’s turning?” He plopped his coin pouch on the counter, inviting the innkeeper to count it. Honey gaped at Ainsworth. “You want to stay for an entire moon’s turning? For forty nights? Here?” Her tail twitched restlessly behind her. “Our guests typically only stay a night—if at all.” She gestured to the open space, which was notably absent of the aforementioned guests. “I require a longer stay.” Ainsworth attempted to smooth his wet hair. He stood taller and straightened the fastener of his cloak. “Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I’m a research fellow at the Skarrow Library in Hinslyth. I am here to make a record of the Misnich Inn and its occupants, to make its presence forever known to history. I will also be the first to document the accounts of those who attempt to conquer Mount Vengeance, thus helping these adventurers not only to establish a name for themselves, but also to secure their names in songs and tales spread across the kingdom for generations to come!” He was slightly breathless when he finished—the rush of words coming unexpectedly, as they often did when he got a chance to talk about his profession, his calling—and it was then he realized that perhaps Lyria could be right, that this project could very much be worth his time and effort. The brightest, most ambitious adventurers would be cataloged by Ainsworth, their place in history marked by his own hands. For what greater honor could there be than when, in making a name for yourself, you made a name for others in the process? Yes, this would be worth it, he told himself. It had to be worth it. If he managed to coax a coherent, interesting history out of this place, perhaps discover the next hero of the Saltquart Kingdom, he would prove his worth—to everyone at the Skarrow Library, and to himself. “Goodness! How… ambitious!” Honey squeaked, a slight flush to her cheeks. “Why yes, it is, isn’t it?” Ainsworth smirked, knowing all too well the impressive portrait he and his academic accolades painted. He ignored the small snort from the direction of the bar. “Do you— Do you plan on tackling the mountain yourself, alongside the adventurers you seek?” she asked. “Matron, no!” Ainsworth shuddered. The very idea! First and foremost, he was not trained in the type of observational research methods that such an endeavor would require. Instead, he possessed an enviable ability to uncover stories from just about anyone or anything—helping research subjects weave what they thought were mundane aspects of their lives into the significant markers of heritage and history that they were, or tirelessly following the smallest of leads to unearth the importance of seemingly inconsequential objects or documents. Ainsworth knew his place. He recorded history; he did not make it. Plus, there was the small matter of his lackluster spellcasting, his meager physical strength, and his lack of combat ability with any weapon whatsoever. Honey considered him with what he took to be wariness, so he quickly cleared his throat and amended: “Alas, I do not have the provisions or the practical skills for such a task. Instead, I seek to connect with the guests who do possess such things, to ensure their story is never forgotten—as has been the case thus far, I believe.” “Right. However, there’s just one problem—” Honey began. Ainsworth held a hand aloft to stop her. “I know; I can see. There are no guests. But surely across forty nights I will encounter at least a handful, and of those I imagine some will be successful in their quest. And in the meantime, I can document the history of this inn.” “Very well, that’s… nice.” Honey could not seem to look at him, fixing her gaze on her clawed hands instead. “But it isn’t that,” she added, finally looking up at him. “Whatever else could be the matter?” Ainsworth asked through gritted teeth. Oh, how he longed to sink into a hot bath! “You see…” Honey began, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, briefly disturbing the small, shining trinkets dangling from her horns. “In my time as innkeeper, no one who has ever stayed here has actually gone on to Mount Vengeance. Oh, they arrive here full of those intentions. But come the next morning, they all decide not to go through with it. They turn back. Head home.” A few seconds of heavy silence descended. Ainsworth did not quite let the enormity of her words settle over him. Eventually, he placed his hands on the counter. “You jest,” he said in a quivering voice that barely carried the weight of his frustration. “She doesn’t,” called the barman from across the room. “Fancy an ale, lad?” Excerpted from The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance, copyright © 2026 by Chiara Bullen. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Inn at the Foot of Mount Vengeance</i> by Chiara Bullen appeared first on Reactor.