The wooden door creaked open, and Michail stepped into the Squeaking Boar tavern. Dim candles flickered like dying flames, struggling to illuminate the room with any semblance of light. Thick plumes of pipe smoke curled through the dim candlelight like grasping fingers, weaving its way through the murmurs of hushed conversations. The bitter tang of cheap ale saturated the air, mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies and mildew. The patrons seemed to be an eclectic assortment of misfits – cutthroats, thieves, and vagabonds, all gathered under one roof in this vile den.

  Michail's eyes scanned the room. He had come here seeking answers, and he would not leave until he found them behind closed mouths and suspicious glances.

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  “Oi!” he called out, trying to imitate the speech of common people to win their trust. “I'm looking for information about my uncle's death. Who here can help me?”

  The response was a cacophony of silence, punctuated only by the occasional snicker or dismissive shrug. Michail felt his frustration mounting. These people knew something – he could see it in their guarded expressions and furtive whispers. But no one was willing to break the unspoken code that governed this place. No one dared to betray their fellow patrons by speaking the truth.

  (The rest of the chapter has been removed to prevent further copyright infringements.)