Chapter Eighty-Two: The Bard

  Inside, the tavern was packed with locals. Their eyes flicked to the doorway, taking in Jace and the others with slow, deliberate glances. It wasn’t just curiosity—they were weighing them, measuring them like they could tell at a glance that they didn’t belong. He felt the itch of their stares linger, as if they knew something he didn’t, and weren’t keen to share.

  Moments later, Marcus returned, a grin still plastered on his face. “We’ve got a place,” he said, the hint of mockery in his tone impossible to miss. “But there’s a catch. No one’s stepping inside until we clean up. Out back, by the horses. Apparently, we’re too ‘unsightly.’”

  Dex snorted, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. If we’d changed before coming here, we’d be filthy again by now, anyway.”

  “Rules are rules,” Marcus said with a shrug, his eyes gleaming. “Try not to drag half the road inside with you, eh?”

  Reluctantly, they shuffled out back, where a few wooden buckets sat by a stone trough of running water. Jace dipped his hands into the cool water, scrubbing at the grime that clung to his skin. His reflection rippled, distortions in the surface. He hadn’t realized just how much dirt had caked on until now.

  Marcus stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking infuriatingly pristine. Not a speck of dirt dared cling to him, thanks to the charm embedded in the clasp of his cloak—a fact he was keen to flaunt.

  “Of course you’d have a magical cleaner,” Dex grumbled, wringing out his shirt. “I swear, you’d find a way to stay spotless in a mudslide.”

  Marcus flashed a smug grin. “Some of us just have... standards.”

  Once they’d cleaned up as best they could, the group filed back inside, dressed in fresh clothes from their inventories. The tavern’s warmth embraced them, the smell of roasting meat and the flicker of firelight drawing them closer. The locals eyed them again, but the tension had eased—just a little. They were still outsiders, but at least now, they weren’t walking in covered in the road’s filth.

  But even as the fire crackled in the hearth and the pungent smell of meat and mead filled the air, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was... off. The way the locals had looked at them—it wasn’t just suspicion. There was something else in their eyes.

  Something darker.

  They secured three rooms above the bar—one for Jace and Dex, another for Ell and Alice, and the last, which Marcus stubbornly insisted on taking for himself.

  After staking his claim on the lumpy excuse for a bed and arranging his stuff just so, Jace headed back down to the bustling belly of the tavern. He went solo—because why complicate things?

  The tavern received him with a quiet stillness, not cold enough to bite, nor warm enough to comfort. It was the kind of stillness that settled beneath the skin, where flickering lanterns only hinted at light, and the scent of worn wood evoked a memory too distant to touch. The kind that made it clear Jace was being tolerated, not welcomed. Yet it also carried a weary understanding—everyone here had their own share of flaws and knew better than to throw stones from within their fragile glass houses.

  This place wasn’t built for cheer or chatter, but for the gentle lull of soft voices, a refuge against the world beyond its door. No laughter lifted here, no children’s voices echoed—just the calm of words spoken low, each conversation careful not to disrupt the fragile peace that the room held.

  Round wooden tables stood scattered across the room, their surfaces scarred with age, each occupied by locals leaning close, their voices barely rising above the sigh of the hearth. At the far end, an old man sat alone, his beard a ghostly white, hands working a knife over a small block of wood. He glanced at Jace, the movement of his eyes catching the dim light, before returning to his work, shavings falling in slow drifts to the floor at his feet, a forgotten season’s leaves.

  In the back, two women sat, their heads bent in quiet conversation, a whisper between them too delicate for the space to fully hold. One paused as Jace entered, her gaze flickering up, her words stalling, then fading as she looked back at her companion. They shared a glance, the kind that spoke volumes in silence, a shared acknowledgment that no words could ever articulate.

  The barkeep, a broad-shouldered man with a face lined by endless nights, gave Jace a nod—neither friendly nor cold. Jace was just another shape in the muted rhythm of it, a note that was too quiet to hear.

  Behind the bar stood the bartender, a stout man with a bushy mustache and a friendly demeanor. His hands were in constant motion, wiping a glass with a rag, then setting it down to reach for a bottle, pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into a cup. He slid it across the counter to a waiting patron, his fingers tapping the wood in a rhythmic pattern as he spoke.

  Jace approached the bar, taking in the rich scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafting from the kitchen. The bartender looked up, his eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile that didn’t quite reach them.

  “Welcome, Traveler,” he said, his voice polite but guarded. He grabbed another glass, polishing it with the same rag, his hands never still. “What can I get for you today?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “What do you have?” Jace asked.

  “Mead and stew.”

  “I guess I’ll have that then,” Jace replied, settling onto a stool.

  The bartender nodded, already moving to fill the order. “Been on the road long?” he asked, the words casual but the tone slightly clipped.

  Jace noticed a few more glances his way, conversations that subtly shifted direction as he passed. A man at the corner table paused mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing just a fraction before turning back to his companions. The room’s warmth felt just a bit cooler, the hum carrying a faint, almost imperceptible tension.

  “Long enough,” Jace said, watching the bartender’s hands expertly maneuvering around the bar, pouring, wiping, and arranging with practiced ease.

  A woman’s voice rose above the din, clear and melodic, weaving through the room like a ribbon. Jace turned his head, drawn to the sound. At the far corner of the tavern, a woman stood, singing as a man played an ancient lyre beside her. Her eyes were closed, lost in the music, her hands gently swaying to the rhythm.

  She was tall and graceful, with long, raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, shimmering in the firelight. Her skin was a warm, sun-kissed bronze, and she wore a simple, flowing dress that clung to her slender frame. The dress, silken-green, swayed with her movements, catching the light and giving her an ethereal quality. There was something about her that seemed familiar, though Jace couldn’t place what it was. Like a face from a long-forgotten dream.

  As her voice filled the room, a few patrons looked her way, their expressions softening. She sang with a passion that seemed to reach deep into her soul, carrying a sea of stories and emotion.

  “In golden fields where earth and sky,

  She wandered lost, her heart’s lone cry.

  Beneath the stars in night’s embrace,

  She moved with grace, a gentle pace.

  His words were veiled in shadows deep,

  Guarded secrets, night would keep.

  A maiden’s plea, a gentle sigh,

  Beneath the tree where sorrows lie.

  In fields of gold, where dreams do bloom,

  She shed her tears, the silver moon.

  Unknowing of his love’s true flame,

  In absence burned, a silent name.

  In fields where light and dreams entwine,

  Echoes of love forever shine.

  Alone she roamed, her heart a tome,

  Forever seeking love, a home.”

  Her voice danced, each note carrying a story. The man beside her plucked the strings of the lyre with nimble fingers, his eyes fixed on her as if she were the only thing that mattered.

  Jace watched as the bartender set down a steaming bowl of stew and a golden-hued drinking cup before him—a shallow, wide vessel with two delicate handles. It had a strange elegance, something that seemed both ceremonial and entirely impractical. He studied it for a moment, the shape unfamiliar, his fingers unsure how to hold it properly. It spoke of a time or place he didn’t know, an artifact of a culture that had never touched his life until now.

  “Here you are. Enjoy,” the bartender said, his voice a quiet note in the room’s muted symphony.

  “Thanks.” Jace nodded, gripping the twin handles and tilting the vessel toward him. The motion felt awkward, and he slurped at the edge, careful, like a cat testing a dish of milk—ginger and uncertain but managing all the same.

  Still, no flavor. He frowned, glancing around before surreptitiously retrieving a vial from his inventory and tilting just a drop into the golden mead, his hand shielding the movement to avoid offending the barkeep.

  Jace gave a small sigh, watching as the liquid swirled, the once flat taste now brightened by the addition of his concoction. Better. He raised the “cup” again, taking a deeper sip, and let the warmth settle in his chest, pushing away the lingering chill of the evening.

  You have consumed: Rustic Mead

  Effect Gained: Minor Fortitude

  Slightly boosts resistance to cold and minor ailments for 30 minutes.

  Effect Gained: Mild Intoxication

  Minus 2 to Intelligence and Wisdom for 30 minutes or until Cured.

  Flavor Saver has enhanced this effect. Duration increased by 10%.

  Jace made a mental note that the Flavor Saver increased both the positive and negative effects.

  The song and the scene blended with his thoughts. Jace took a sip of his mead and let the melody weave through his thoughts. Jace spooned stew into his mouth, the flavors rich and earthy. His attention sharpened when he caught snippets of a conversation from the next table.

  Eventually, Jace retreated to a dark corner of the tavern, letting the night stretch on around him. He blended into the shadows, his presence fading from their collective memory. As the drinks flowed and the warmth of familiarity returned to the room, he listened. He waited for their walls to drop, for the secrets to slip through the cracks in their guarded words.

  Two men and an older woman, each rough around the edges, leaned in close over their drinks. “It’s those damn wolves again,” the older woman muttered, her voice gravelly and slurred from drink. “Terrorizing the wagons on the border between Zone Three and Four.”

  The younger man shook his head, frustration etching lines into his features. “And what do the guards do? Nothing. Just let the beasts run wild.”

  “Could always ask a Traveler for some help,” the other man said with a smirk.

  They laughed, harsh and bitter. “Oh, I’d rather have wolves than Travelers any day. We need someone to take care of the wolves, not burn down a town.”

  “They think they own everything. No respect. It’s because they’re immortal, you know.”

  “Unreliable bunch,” the crone muttered, raising her mug before taking a long swig of ale. “Always stirring up trouble, then vanishing the moment things get rough. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since their little... mishap.” She chuckled, a low, gravelly sound, the kind that carried more spite than humor.

  Jace had never heard such disdain about Travelers. It was odd. He had thought Citizens and Travelers worked together. He pushed the thoughts aside, letting them drift into the periphery like leaves caught in a slow current. But that night, the thought refused to leave him alone.

  His eyes grew heavier, the flickering candlelight in the room's corner blurring into a warm glow. Dex was already sprawled across his bed, snoring softly, when Jace returned. The weight of the day settled in, and Jace’s mind loosened its grip on the puzzle, surrendering to the pull of sleep.

  Sleep was fitful, at best. The low rumble of Dex’s snoring rose and fell, a steady background noise that Jace drifted in and out of. Eventually, he managed to sink into a deeper sleep, but morning came all too soon.