Ulio hesitated at the edge of the stage, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the clasps of his case. At that moment, he looked entirely his age—a nervous and scared boy in an unfamiliar environment.

  He took out his instrument and set the case aside, taking a deep breath.

  With his lyre in hand, Ulio’s posture straightened, his fingers lightly dancing over the strings.

  They were the only part of the lyre that didn’t look meticulously crafted. Though even there Rowan could see signs of what used to be. Three of them shimmered like strung gold as the dim light of the tavern hit them, while Ulio slowly plucked away, his confidence growing.

  It was a beautifully crafted piece, made of onyx black wood with faint lines of red running along its side. Squinting, Rowan noticed that they weren’t only there as decorations, but were actually enchantments engraved into it.

  He really should have looked at it before saying fifty, Rowan thought, smiling to himself as Misk and his group exited the Hall.

  They seem suitably pissed off. Good.

  Rowan focused back on Ulio as he started playing.

  The shy boy disappeared entirely, his hesitancy replaced by a focus only born of confidence in his craft.

  The tavern goers weren’t paying him much attention, but it didn’t seem that he minded all that much.

  Ulio became totally absorbed in those basic movements, closing his eyes as a small smile spread across his face.

  Rowan could feel his pulse quicken, the rising excitement impossible to ignore.

  While the troupe were excellent performers, their skills honed over many long years, they weren’t true Bards.

  It wasn’t a path often walked. It required one to be born with the ability to perform magic, not just gain it by advancing their stats. And then, you had to discard it for something most deemed lesser. Exchange the potential to move mountains with the ability to make music sound better.

  But Rowan knew that being a bard entailed so much more than just that.

  It was a Path to power, just like any other. And the ability to affect another’s emotions was anything but weak.

  Watching Ulio, Rowan couldn’t help but feel a pang of nostalgia.

  The way the soft notes seemed to vibrate the very air around him reminded Rowan of his family’s halls, where the songs of Bards once filled the air with magic.

  The melody he wove wasn’t all that impressive in its complexity, but one by one, the tavern goers slowly turned towards the stage. Conversations hushed, chairs scraping as people shifted their focus. Even the bartenders paused, mugs halfway filled.

  The small compulsion wasn’t something most would notice, and even if they did, letting it take hold was worth it.

  Katrin and the troupe stepped back, letting Ulio take center stage.

  The first true note rang out, and while the change wasn’t immediate, Rowan felt mana coming from the bard's fingers. It wasn’t even enough to cast a Whisper-level spell, but then again, he wasn’t a mage.

  The melody swirled through the tavern, a gentle pull, like a wave sweeping over them.

  Mugs hovered mid-air—forgotten—as all eyes turned towards the stage.

  “Remarkable,” Zoe muttered softly, her eyes taking in the room with a curious expression.

  Rowan smiled. “You’re in for a treat.”

  She glanced at him, her brows furrowed. It looked like she was going to ask something but stopped herself. Instead just nodding and looking back at the stage.

  A rich, resonant note swept through the tavern, blending with the low murmur of the crowd.

  Gradually, he picked up speed, a strange build-up in the air.

  Ulio’s voice soon joined the melody he was painting. A soft, slow song one wouldn’t expect to hear in the Hall, but no one seemed to mind.

  The warm glow of the lanterns illuminating the walls seemed to flicker, the logs in the hearth popping and crackling, as if the room itself was swaying to the music.

  As Ulio played, a soft shimmer seemed to ripple through the air right at the edge of Rowan’s vision, like heat rising off cobblestones. It kept his attention centered, and he knew it was doing the same to the other people in this room.

  It felt warmer, more intimate, the notes wrapping everyone in a gentle embrace.

  Faces softened, eyes closed, and for a moment, it felt like the entire tavern was breathing in time with the melody.

  Rowan allowed the effect to take hold, letting it guide his mood.

  It would have only taken a slight effort of will to push it away, but he had no intention of doing that.

  Ulio was just getting started on his Path, and while he wasn’t as good as the bards Rowan remembered from his youth, it didn’t seem fair to compare the two.

  There were no grand illusions to accompany his performance, but there was something to be said about simplicity.

  Rowan closed his eyes, enjoying the music, the company, and even the ache in his chest. It represented progress, and while he wouldn’t say it out loud, this impromptu celebration was exactly what he needed.

  Ever so slowly, his injury receded. Not fully, and not even by a lot, but it was enough for Rowan to notice it.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  He had no way of knowing to what degree it had healed, but he had a feeling that a Whisper-level spell wouldn’t lay him out now.

  As the song drew to a close, the atmosphere in the Hall slowly returned to normal.

  Ulio swayed slightly as his eyes blinked open, sweat dripping from his brow, obviously drained by his performance. He nervously looked around, his confidence draining at the silence.

  Then, suddenly, a cheer went out.

  The rest of the Hall joined in, clapping loudly, mugs raised towards the young bard.

  A wide, joyful smile appeared on Ulio’s face, and after a moment, he gave the boisterous crowd a deep bow.

  Emros stepped up, clapping the boy on the back and whispering something in his ear, gesturing at the table they sat earlier.

  Ulio shook his head, muttering something back with a determined expression.

  Emros laughed, giving the boy a nod before launching into another song.

  His exhaustion forgotten, Ulio followed along as Katrin and Zahir joined in.

  There was no magic in it this time, his reserves most likely drained by what he’d done. Yet Rowan didn’t care, and neither did the rest.

  The night progressed smoothly after that. With drinking, and dancing, and more than a bit of fighting.

  Ulio had become a celebrity in his own right, and by the time Rowan was getting ready to leave, he was already snoring on a table after accepting one too many drinks.

  Thankfully, Zahir was kind enough to help the boy to his room.

  The old musician nodded to Rowan as he passed. “This one truly is a gem,” he said, an amused smile tugging on his lips as he looked at the passed-out bard. “Though I fear he may still be a bit young for the toll of a performance like that.”

  Rowan chuckled. “You might be right about that.”

  With the music gone, the Hall slowly emptied. Adventurers went about finding their way home, some going back into the city, while others moved upstairs to the rooms the Guild offered.

  Rowan looked at Nemir, Annie, and Zoe, all three of them eyeing him with differing expressions.

  “Well,” he stood up, “let’s hope I didn’t waste all that gold for nothing.”

  Annie snorted. “For the record, I still think it’s an idiotic idea.”

  Rowan nodded. “Duly noted, and ignored.”

  She glared at him, and Rowan couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Just trust me, alright? It’s better to nip things like this in the bud.”

  “I agree,” Nemir said. “And if it’s them that start it, we have every justification to finish it.”

  Annie sighed. “Just make sure not to kill any of them. With everything that’s going on, I doubt the Guild is going to appreciate losing adventurers,” she looked at Nemir. “No matter how ‘justified’ it was.”

  “Of course,” he nodded. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  Satisfied with that answer, Annie looked back at Rowan. “What happens when Killian comes back?” she asked. “There’s a whole lot more of them than there are of us. And I don’t like our chances against all thirty of them.”

  “I asked around. His quest should keep him out of the city for at least a week or two,” Rowan said. “And by the time he comes back, I’ll hopefully be all healed up. This is just so the members of his team still in Litwick think twice before starting something again.”

  “Really?” Annie arched an eyebrow. “Because judging by the grin on your face, you seem to have ulterior motives.”

  Rowan schooled his expression, but he couldn’t keep the eager glint out of his eyes. “Alright, you caught me,” he shrugged. “But in my defense, who doesn't enjoy putting assholes in their place?”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Annie smirked.

  “And what is my role going to be in this escapade?” Zoe asked, tapping her fingers against each other. “I must confess, I am quite excited,” she said with a small, almost shy smile.

  “Well, I’m glad at least someone thinks my idea is a good one.”

  Annie rolled her eyes.

  “Anyway, your role is to help if things go sideways,” Rowan answered. “To make sure all our limbs stay right where they are. Connected to our bodies.”

  The healer nodded firmly. “I shall endeavor to do just that.”

  And with that, Rowan bid a temporary goodbye to his team and made his way out of the Guild Hall.

  The cool night air greeted him, a crisp breeze blowing against his face. The cobbled streets of Litwick were quieter now, with most of the city’s residents retiring to their beds hours ago. Lanterns lined the walls, their flickering light casting long, shifting shadows across the uneven stone.

  Rowan adjusted his coat, slipping his hands into his pockets as he began walking at a leisurely pace.

  His boots echoed softly against the cobblestone, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of his heart.

  He resisted the urge to glance back over his shoulder. There was no need. He’d felt their eyes on him the moment he left the Hall.

  They’re not even subtle about it.

  The dull clink of armor and the faint shuffle of boots on stone echoed behind him, steady but cautious.

  Rowan kept his pace even, his expression relaxed as he moved further into the city. It was a delicate dance—leading them where he wanted without tipping his hand too soon.

  The main paths of Litwick were safer, well-lit and patrolled by the occasional guard. But Rowan didn’t plan on sticking to them. His steps grew slower, more deliberate as he turned down a quieter side street.

  The houses were smaller here, their shutters drawn tight against the chill and the soft glow of lanterns replaced by the silvery light of the moon.

  The sounds following him grew faint for a moment, and Rowan knew they were hanging back, wary of being spotted.

  A bit late for that.

  A fork in the road came into view, one path leading back towards the bustling heart of the city and the other veering toward the edge of a small park. Rowan chose the darker, quieter route and kept walking.

  The park wasn’t exactly large—more a cluster of trees and a few winding paths—but it was enough for what he had in mind.

  Tall oaks and willows loomed, their bare branches twisting like skeletal fingers against the night sky. The air here was colder, the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves prominent.

  Rowan let out a quiet breath, allowing his posture to loosen just enough to sell the image of someone unaware. He made his way down the dirt path, his steps muffled by the soft ground.

  The silence grew heavier, the faint sounds of the city fading into the distance. Rowan’s senses sharpened, his ears straining for the telltale rustle of movement.

  There.

  The crunch of a boot on a stray twig, quickly muffled.

  Rowan’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

  He kept walking, his pace unhurried. The path curved ahead, leading to a small clearing where a single, towering willow stood at its center. Its gnarled trunk was thick and wide, its roots twisting into the ground like the claws of a beast.

  Rowan slowed as he approached it, letting his hand brush against the rough bark.

  The faint rustle of leaves in the wind masked the sound of his pursuers closing in, and he took a step back, turning to face the path he’d come from.

  For a moment, the park was still, the shadows deep and the silence heavy.

  And then, they stepped out.

  Misk emerged first, his wiry frame silhouetted against the faint moonlight. His expression was smug, a thin smile curling at the corners of his lips as he approached.

  Behind him, six others fanned out, their movements deliberate.

  Brought friends, did he?

  Thankfully, the three additional people who joined him were all in low Iron. And against Annie or Nemir, Rowan doubted they’d last more than a few exchanges.

  “Well, well,” Misk drawled, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I must say, that was quite the party you threw back there.”

  Rowan crossed his arms, leaning back against the tree with an air of casual indifference. “You know,” he said, his tone light, “if you’re going to follow someone, you really should be less obvious with it.”

  Misk’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, not expecting Rowan to be so relaxed about an apparent ambush. But it returned a moment later, sharper this time. “And here I thought mages were supposed to be all book-smart and naive,” he said, spreading his arms. “Guess I underestimated you.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” Rowan shrugged, his eyes flickering to the group. “So, what’s this? A friendly chat?”

  One of the thugs, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, shifted uneasily. He glanced around, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Misk ignored him, taking another step closer.

  “How about we make this easy on the both of us and you just give me what I want,” he said, his voice low. “You’ve got a lot of nice things, Jamis. But it’s that ring of yours that really caught my eye,” a greedy look flashed across his face. “And I have a feeling that whatever’s inside is enough to set me up for quite a while.”

  What? Rowan thought, confusion flashing across his face. How in all the hells does he know about the ring?

  Misk laughed. “Just because we aren’t mages doesn't mean we aren’t smart,” he glanced at the thugs behind him. “Well, some of us at least.”

  Well, fuck, Rowan thought. I guess that's out now.

  It was only a matter of time before it happened, and seeing as they already knew about his ring, there really wasn't a point in being coy.

  “You have no idea how right you are,” Rowan said, his gaze hardening. “I have a dragon's hoard in here,” he raised his hand, wiggling his fingers. “More gold than you’ll see in ten dozen lifetimes.”

  The tension in the clearing thickened, the air growing heavy with unspoken threat. The six men behind Misk shifted, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.

  Misk’s smile vanished, replaced by a hard, calculating expression. “You’re awfully confident for someone who can’t cast.”

  Rowan arched an eyebrow. “And did you think to ask yourself why that was?”

  “I did,” with a flick of his wrist, he signaled his men to move forward. “And I came to a simple conclusion.”

  Misk unsheathed his sword. “I think you’re full of shit,” he smirked. “Just like you were in that cavern.”

  And with that, he lunged.