The weathered stone walls of Haven's Cross materialized through the evening mist, painted gold by the setting sun. A lump formed in my throat as I took in the fortress's sight. Memories surged, unbidden yet vivid—nights spent safely within those walls, laughter shared in the tavern, and the bittersweet ache of knowing how much had changed in the last few weeks. It wasn't just a homecoming; it was a reckoning with the echoes of the past and the uncertain promises of the future.
My heart quickened as the fortress-city came into view, its central keep rising proudly above the sprawling buildings. Music and laughter spilled over the ancient battlements, a welcoming symphony that stirred memories of countless nights spent within those protective walls. I guided my Swiftclaw through the bustling outer gates, feeling the beast's steady rhythm beneath me. Lady Moira rode beside me, her silver-threaded cloak catching the breeze like captured moonlight. I could hear Elena and Twylla behind us, their laughter carrying forward, while Law and Bron maintained their protective positions at our rear. Even here, in the safety of home, their hands never strayed far from their weapons. Old habits, I supposed, died hard.
The journey had been remarkably swift. With the Black Scale scattered after our victory at Night's Hollow, we'd made record time—no patrols to dodge, no guarded bridges to circumvent. Each league had brought us closer to home, each day a reminder of how much had changed since we'd left.
Word of our arrival must have spread like wildfire. The cobblestone streets pulsed with celebration, transforming the usually austere military outpost into something from a fevered dream. Glowing lanterns strung between buildings cast dancing shadows across familiar faces, while merchant stalls lined the lower bailey, their colourful awnings softening the fortress's harsh lines. The scents of home washed over me—fresh bread, roasting meat, the peculiar mix of steel and stone.
Captain Reed's appearance sent a ripple through the crowd. She emerged with that characteristic grace that had always commanded respect, her crimson officer's sash a stark slash against her polished breastplate. I watched her stern features soften—just barely—as she approached, though her bearing never lost that edge of command that had kept Haven's Cross standing through countless storms.
"Welcome home," she said, her voice carrying both warmth and authority. Her eyes swept over our group, and I felt the weight of her assessment. "The timing of your return couldn't be better. Haven's Cross has missed its own."
Something in her tone set my nerves humming. Behind the welcome, I sensed an undercurrent of tension, that familiar pressure of unspoken concerns.
We dismounted with the easy synchronization that comes from being on the road together. As stable hands appeared to tend our mounts, I found myself swept up in a tide of familiar faces. Koren, Myra—friends I'd made during my brief stay here before everything changed. They approached one by one, each greeting carrying its own weight of memory and meaning. The fortress walls rose around us like old friends, their ancient stones holding countless stories of returns just like this one. But as I watched Captain Reed's eyes dart to the shadows beyond the firelight, I couldn't shake the feeling that my first homecoming to Haven's Cross carried weight beyond mere celebration. Something was brewing, something that cast long shadows even in the warm glow of the welcoming fires.
I wove through the crowd, snatches of conversation reaching my ears.
"...trouble in the south..."
"...Black Scale Brigade on the move..."
The words hung in the air, a discordant note amidst the celebration.
The noise of the celebration washed over me, an unrelenting tide of laughter and clinking mugs. My chest tightened with the familiar weight of unease as I scanned the room. Every cheer, every clatter of tankards, felt too loud, too close. The din of the garrison’s common room seemed to press against me, a living thing intent on squeezing the air from my lungs.
"Brendan!" The booming voice cut through the cacophony, drawing me out of my spiralling thoughts. Before I could react, Mac’s powerful hands clapped down on my shoulders, grounding me. His grin was as broad as ever, his weathered face now bearing new scars I didn’t recognize. "Thought you could sneak by without saying hello?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, forcing a small smile as he pulled me into a quick, crushing embrace. The scent of ale and woodsmoke clung to him, a comforting reminder of countless evenings spent here before the weight of adventure and expectation had pushed me away.
"Here." He pressed a mug into my hands, the warmth of the tankard seeping into my fingers. The rich, malty aroma of Haven’s finest brew wafted up to greet me. "You look like you need this."
I took a tentative sip, the strong ale hitting my tongue with a familiar, bitter warmth. It was stronger than I remembered—or maybe I’d grown softer during my travels. Either way, the heat began to spread through my chest, easing the tightness I hadn’t even realized I was holding onto. I let myself exhale, the edges of my anxiety dulling ever so slightly.
Around me, the revelry surged on, growing louder and more boisterous as the night deepened. Faces I hadn’t seen in months surrounded me, glowing with firelight and joy. The lanterns swung gently above, casting shifting shadows that made the room feel alive, almost magical. I caught fragments of conversation, snippets of laughter, and, for once, the noise didn’t feel overwhelming. It was... grounding.
Mac nudged me, pulling me further into their orbit. Stories were told, tales of our shared adventures retold with exaggerated flair. Speculation about the road ahead mingled with the warmth of the present. The rising din no longer felt like an onslaught but a song in which I was just another note.
The anxiety hadn’t left completely—it never truly did—but for the first time in what felt like weeks; it had quieted to a manageable hum. I drank deeply from my mug, letting the ale settle me further. The warmth of my friends, the rhythm of the celebration, and the strange alchemy of bread and magic combined to make the evening almost... peaceful.
When someone lobbed a bread roll across the table, I startled, my instincts sharpening. The loaf arced high over the heads of our group, and before I could stop myself, I reached out. My fingers closed around it mid-air, the slight tingle of my chaotic magic sparking in my blood at the contact. A chorus of cheers erupted around me, and I couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, unguarded sound that felt foreign and freeing.
I meant to throw it straight. I truly did. But as soon as it left my hand, I knew something had gone wonderfully, terribly wrong. The loaf ricocheted off a hanging pot with a musical ping, bounced from a banner pole with a satisfying thwack, and described an elegant arc through the air that seemed to defy several basic laws of nature. Time slowed as every eye in the room tracked its trajectory, right until the moment it found its final resting place—nestled firmly between Captain Reed's bosom.
The silence held for one eternal heartbeat, the loaf of bread firmly stuck between her breasts. Of all the people in Haven's Cross, why did my chaos magic always, inevitably, find her?
She plucked the bread from its resting place with the same precise dignity. "Brendan," she said, my name carrying the weight of every mishap between us, "I will see you in my office tomorrow morning." Then, to my utter amazement, she took a decisive bite of the bread. A few crumbs fell onto her crimson sash, and I swear I saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips. "As for the rest of you... the party will continue." She turned toward the bar, bread still in hand. "Tavrin! Another round for everyone. And bring me something stronger than ale—I should’ve known better than to expect an uneventful evening with our bard back in town."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Mac's barely contained laughter exploded beside me. "By all the gods, Brendan," he wheezed, "how do you always find her? The fortress has hundreds of people, but somehow, every time..." He wiped tears from his eyes, shoulders still shaking. "You know, if you're trying to get the Captain's attention, there are easier ways than turning every encounter into a comedy of errors. Though I have to admit, your methods are far more entertaining."
"I'm not trying to—" I started to protest, but Mac waved it away with another burst of laughter.
"Sure, sure. Just like you weren't trying to steal her unmentionables that time. Or accidentally stumble into the women's bathhouse. During her private bathing hour." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Though I suppose if you're determined to court her through chaos, at least bread is less likely to get you thrown in the dungeons than your previous attempts."
I felt my face burning hotter than forge-fire. "That's not—I didn't—" I sputtered, which only made Mac laugh harder.
"Don't worry, lad," Mac said, clapping my shoulder with the confidence that only comes from watching someone else's misfortune. "At this rate, she'll either kill you or marry you. Though knowing Reed, probably both."
The tavern's warm light caught the rim of Captain Reed's glass as she raised it to her lips, and I watched her take a measured sip, every movement carrying that same military precision she brought to everything. Even drinking ale was a tactical operation for her.
The tavern's warmth pressed close, carrying the mingled scents of spilled ale, woodsmoke, and countless stories being shared in hushed voices. But beneath the revelry, I caught fragments of darker conversations. Whispers that seemed to pool in the shadows between candle flames, murmuring ominously of villages disappearing overnight, trade routes abandoned, and unnatural storms tearing through the southern reaches. Each word carried a weight that seemed to thicken the air, hinting at a danger far greater than wandering brigands or restless beasts.
Myra materialized at my elbow like a ghost, her expression carrying that familiar weight of unspoken concerns. She'd always had a talent for finding me when the world was about to tilt on its axis.
"Your aim hasn't improved," she observed dryly, nodding toward Captain Reed's back.
"I never aim," I reminded her, but the usual jest felt hollow against her serious expression. "What is it?"
"Not here." Her eyes darted to the crowded room. "Too many ears, not all of them friendly." She paused, considering. "Walk with me? The night air might help clear your head after..." She gestured vaguely toward Captain Reed, who was now engaged in what appeared to be an animated discussion with her fellow officers.
I glanced at Mac, who waved us off with understanding in his eyes. He'd been in Haven's Cross long enough to read the currents of trouble brewing. "Go on," he said. "I'll make sure your dramatic exit doesn't spawn any new legends. Though I make no promises about the bread story."
The night air whispered through the empty streets as Myra and I found a corner away from the celebration's warmth. Her eyes held that familiar gleam—the one that meant she knew something I needed to hear.
"Things have changed since you've been gone," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The Black Scale... there are patterns emerging that don't match what we know."
I felt my shoulders tense. "How bad?"
"Enough that we need to discuss it properly." She glanced over her shoulder, ever cautious. "Meet me in the decoding room tomorrow morning, after your... appointment with Captain Reed." A hint of amusement touched her lips at that last part. "For now, enjoy the celebration. You've earned it."
She squeezed my arm once, meaningfully, before melting back into the shadows. Typical Myra—leaving me with just enough information to ensure I wouldn't sleep soundly. I made my way back to the tavern, where the celebration had grown even more boisterous in my absence.
Mac caught my eye as I entered, raising an eyebrow in silent question. I gave him a slight nod—our old signal that while trouble was brewing; it wasn't immediate. He relaxed slightly, then grinned as Koren approached with someone at his side.
"There's our chaos-throwing bard," Koren called out, his gruff voice carrying a warmth I'd missed. "Speaking of which, don't think your recent heroics excuse you from training. Mac and I expect to see you in the yard every morning."
I groaned theatrically. "I just got back!"
"Exactly," Mac chimed in. "Can't have you getting soft on us now."
That's when I noticed her—the woman standing beside Koren. Something about her presence demanded attention, though she hadn't spoken a word. My Identify skill hummed to life almost instinctively:
Name: Elara
Class: Ranger
Level: 10
HP: 70/70
MP: 40/40
Strength: 12
Finesse: 18
Constitution: 13
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom: 15
Charisma: 15
Speed: 16
Base Attack: 12
Base Defence: 16
Damage: Recurve Bow = 1D8+2
Free Points: 0
EXP: 1450/3000
Gold: 245
Resistances: AVG 6.9
Special Attack(s):
-
Precise Shot: Increased accuracy and damage at cost of slower firing rate
-
Quick Draw: Enhanced initiative in combat
Special Defence(s):
-
Shadow Step: Brief invisibility during movement
-
Evasive Roll: Can dodge incoming attacks with enhanced success rate
-
Nature's Camouflage: Bonus to stealth in natural environments
She stood with a ranger's effortless grace, her leather armour worn but well-maintained. Dark hair was pulled back in a practical braid, though a few stubborn strands had escaped to frame a face that seemed caught between amusement and assessment. Her eyes, I noticed with a start, held the same calculating gleam I'd often seen in Jay's gaze when he was plotting something particularly devious.
"Actually," I said, still watching her curiously, "I've been wanting to work on my tracking skills."
The grin that spread across Koren's face should have been my first warning. "Perfect timing. Elara here is our best tracker." He turned to her. "What do you say? Feel like taking on a student?"
Her smile reminded me of a wolf considering its prey. "I suppose I could make time tomorrow afternoon." Her voice carried a musical lilt that somehow made the words sound both promising and vaguely threatening. "Assuming he can keep up."
Mac and Koren exchanged a look I couldn't quite decipher, a silent conversation passing between them in the space of a heartbeat. I'd known them long enough to recognize mischief brewing, but the ale had dulled my usual wariness.
"Fair warning," Koren said, though his tone suggested he was enjoying some private joke, "Elara's teaching methods can be... unconventional."
"After surviving Jay's lock-picking lessons and your combat training, I think I can handle unconventional," I replied, earning another one of those wolf-like smiles from Elara.
She leaned against the bar with casual grace, but I noticed how her eyes never stopped moving, cataloging details most would miss. "I've heard stories about your adventures," she said, reaching for her drink. "The Hero of Night's Hollow, master of bard magic and accidental bread trajectories."
The way she said it carried no mockery, just genuine curiosity wrapped in amusement. Something about her presence felt both familiar and entirely new, like a song played in a different key.
"The bread was purely unintentional," I defended, though I couldn't help smiling. "The bard magic, however..."
"Is exactly why tomorrow's lesson should be interesting." She straightened, and I glimpsed carefully maintained throwing knives at her belt. "Meet me at the eastern gate after your morning training. Wear something you don't mind getting dirty."
Koren's barely contained laughter rumbled beside me. "Don't worry, lad. If you survive Jay's corridor of culinary consequences, you'll probably survive Elara's tracking lessons."
"Probably?" I echoed.
Mac clapped my shoulder. "Think of it as motivation to stay alert. Speaking of which—sunrise comes early, and we expect you bright-eyed and ready to work on those sword forms."
"And if I'm not?"
"Then we'll have to get creative with your training," Mac's grin widened.
I suppressed a shudder, remembering the last time they got creative with training methods. "I'll be there."
"Good man," Koren nodded. "Now, let's get another round in before you need to face Captain Reed tomorrow. I have a feeling you'll need it."
As they moved toward the bar, I watched Elara. She caught my gaze and raised an eyebrow, that mysterious smile playing at her lips again. "Be prepared for anything tomorrow," she advised, then added with a glint in her eye, "And maybe work on your aim between now and then."
The tavern's warmth wrapped around us, filled with laughter and the promise of new adventures—and possibly new disasters—to come. Tomorrow would bring Myra's warnings, Captain Reed's judgment, and whatever trials Elara had in store for me. But tonight... tonight was for celebration, for the simple joy of being home among friends, even if some of those friends seemed determined to ensure my continued suffering in the name of training.
I raised my mug in silent salute to whatever chaos tomorrow would bring. After all, if there's one thing a bard learns quickly, it's that the best stories often start with the worst ideas.
Elara's laughter rang out at something Mac said, the sound cutting through the tavern's noise like sunlight through morning mist. For a moment, just a heartbeat really, our eyes met again, and I felt that strange spark of recognition—like finding a familiar note in an unknown song.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting indeed.