Beneath the heavens’ radiant spire, There stirred a god of wrath and fire. Varyndros, the Darkened Fme,With whispers foul, he earned his name.

  Once a beacon, proud and bright,A guardian of the sacred light.But envy gnawed and twisted his soul,‘Til shadows consumed him, and darkness took hold.

  He wove deceit with a silver tongue, And from his lies, rebellion sprung.His kin, the gods, with hearts betrayed,Felt the sting of chaos he’d made.

  A crown of ash, he sought to cim,To bend all realms beneath his name.Yet light cannot forever fade, And even the stars will seek to be saved.

  Together the gods, with powers combined, A prison for Varyndros sought to design.Not walls not chains of steel,But a binding forged with celestial zeel.

  A battle raged though skies and earth,Where mountains crumbled and seas gave birthTo storms that roared, to fires untamed, All wrought by the fury the gods procimed.

  At st, on a peak where the heaves touch stone, Varyndros stood, defiant, alone.With divine force, they tore him asunder,And sealed his essence with thunderous wonder.

  A gemstone carved from the starry deep,To hold the fiend in eternal sleep.its facets shimmered, its core burned red,A tomb for the god who was better off dead.

  But even a prison of perfect might, May falter under the wronged one’s spite.

  ~Unknown Poet

  The room was small but comfortable, lit by the soft orange glow of a single ntern hanging from the low, wooden beams of the ceiling. A cool draft seeped through the window, carrying with it the distant murmur of the streets of Erindel. Once a proud elven city, now the crown jewel of Valtheris, the capital bore the fading scars of conquest alongside its opulent splendour. Yet none of that mattered now to Daerion Lysel, a bard of some renown, who sat at a small table at the window, scribbling furiously onto a worn parchment.

  Daerion was a man in his te thirties, his auburn hair swept back in loose waves, the strands catching the ntern’s light like spun copper. His green eyes gleamed with restless energy, scanning the verses he had just written. He was dressed in clothing as vibrant as his performances, a crimson doublet embroidered with golden thread, paired with forest-green breeches and a deep blue sash tied around his waist. Though his attire was colourful, it stopped short of gaudy – an intentional bance that made him approachable yet memorable. His lute rested beside him, its polished wood gleaming, ready to bring his thoughts to life.

  Clearing his throat, Daerion began to sing softly, his voice rich and melodic, though ced with uncertainty.

  “In the city of shadowed spires, where honour once stood tall,A name now whispered though the streets, Kyrell – who brought the fall.The banners fell, the torches dimmed, as silence cimed the square,And hope was buried deep beneath the rebels’ deadly gre.”

  He paused, frowning, and scratched out the st line with the edge of his quill. “No, no, that’s too heavy-handed, “he muttered to himself, brushing his hand though his hair. “The weight is there, but it.. cks elegance. If this is to be sung in halls and taverns alike, it must feel tragic yet beautiful.”

  He dipped the quill into the inkwell and rewrote the line, murmuring as he worked. “How about… ‘And hope dissolved like morning mist beneath the rebels’ stare’..?”

  Nodding slowly, Daerion strummed his lute, testing the melody again. His voice lifted once more, filling the room with the mencholy strains of his bald.

  “No sword was raised, no blood was spilled, the city bowed with grace, Yet hearts were crushed by whispered dread, and tears marked every face. The lord of shadows cimed the throne, with words that froze the soul,And Makar’s pride was turned to ash beneath his iron control.”

  Satisfied with the flow, Daerion leaned back against the bedframe, chewing on the tip of his quill. He was no stranger to tales of rebellion or conquest, but Kyrell’s coup was unlike any other. The bard had heard the rumours: a speech so fearsome it broke even the strongest wills, a man so cunning he turned enemies into allies, or rather sves, without a single blow.

  He shook his head, shivering despite the warmth of the room. “A city bows without a bde,” he mused aloud. “There’s a story that will haunt the ages.”

  Standing, Daerion paced the room, lute in hand, strumming absentmindedly. His fingers found a mournful tune, and he hummed a few bars before his voice rose again.

  “Yet in the shadow’s cold embrace, a seed of hope may lie,For tyrants rise and tyrants fall, as stars fade from the sky. So sing, my friends of Makar, and weep for what was lost,But remember well the rebel’s name, and the price of freedom’s cost.”

  He stopped, staring at the parchment. It wasn’t perfect, but it was coming together. This would be a bald sung long after Kyrell’s name was forgotten, when Makar’s streets had healed or fallen further into ruin. And in its verses, perhaps people would find a reflection of their own struggles, their own fears.

  Daerion sat back down, sighing as he added a few finishing flourishes to the melody. His colourful clothing caught the flickering light, and for a moment, he looked as though he were part of some grand painting: the bard at work, crafting sorrow into song.

  The sound of the tch rattling snapped Daerion out of his thoughts. He looked up as the door creaked open, revealing a stout woman with ruddy cheeks and an apron dusted with flour. It was Mirna, the inn’s barmaid and part-time keeper of order in the bustling establishment. Her face was set in its usual mix of cheer and exasperation.

  “Daerion Lysel,” she said pnting her hands on her hips, “If you pn to occupy my best room tonight without so much as a copper spent, you’ll need to earn your keep. The crowd downstairs is lively, and they’re asking for music. You coming, or should I start counting the coin you owe me?”

  Daerion smiled, setting his lute down with a flourish. “Mirna, you wound me. Do you think me the sort to leave a gathering thirsting for song?” He stood and swept his doublet to smooth it out, reaching for the lute. “Let me bring them joy and I’ll even dedicate a tune to you, my dear.”

  Mirna rolled her eyes but smiled. “I’ll take my joy in seeing the coins flow from their hands to my till, thank you. Be quick about it.”

  Within moments, Daerion was descending the narrow wooden staircase into the warm, rowdy glow of the common room. The air smelled of roasted meat, stale ale, and a faint hint of pipe smoke. The crowd was dense, their ughter and chatter filling the space like a rising tide. A few heads turned as the bard reached the bottom step, lute in hand, his colourful clothing drawing as much attention as the promise of entertainment.

  “Ah, good folk of Erindel!” Daerion called, spreading his arms wide as he strode to the small stage in the corner. “I hear there is revelry in need of rhythm, mirth in need of melody, and thirsts in need of tales to quench them! Shall I remedy this dire situation?”

  A cheer went up from the crowd, mugs raised in approval. Daerion grinned and settled onto a stool, his lute resting comfortably in his p. He strummed a few testing chords, letting the notes settle over the room like a calming wave before unching into a lively tune.

  “This first one,” he began, “is a tale of a miller’s daughter who outwitted a nobleman thrice her age and left him with naught but his pride. I call it The Miller’s Daughter’s Dowry.”

  The crowd chuckled, raising their mugs as Daerion began to py a lively tune, the chords bouncing and light. His voice was clear and pyful, every word coloured with theatrical charm.

  “There once was a ss with hair of gold, and eyes that made the bravest bold. A miller’s child of modest means, who spun her wits to weave grand schemes.”

  The melody quickened as he leaned into the next verse, his hands moving deftly across the lute’s strings.

  “A nobleman came with purse in hand, and said, ‘I’ll give you house and nd.be my bride, and you shall see, your life a dream- if you marry me!”

  Daerion paused dramatically, giving the crowd a sly look. “But our ss, you see, was no ordinary maiden.” He winked and unched back into the tune.

  “’A dream!’ she cried, ‘How sweet, how fine!’But where’s the proof these dreams are mine?if I should wed, then first I’ll need, a dowry grand, for my father’s greed.”

  The crowd chuckled, the rhythm pulling them into the story.

  “The nobleman grinned, so smug, so sly, ‘I’ve riches enough to make you sigh. What dowry’s price, my cunning dove?’‘Bring me the Moon’, she said, ‘my love’.”

  A burst of ughter rippled though the room, and Daerion smirked, leaning into the chorus.

  “Oh, she’ll take your gold, she’ll take your nd, She’ll even take the ring that’s on your hand!But her heart is hers, and hers alone,She’ll leave you standing, cold as stone.”

  He strummed the lute louder, his voice rising to carry over the cps and cheers.

  “The noble man, puzzled, scratched his chin,‘A riddle, is it? Well, I’ll begin.’ he sent for mages, he sent for lore,But how to gift the Moon? He knew no more.”

  The crowd was leaning in now, caught in the absurdity of the tale.

  “The miller’s ss, she simply smiled, and said, ‘Let’s make this deal worthwhile.If you can’t bring the Moon the me, perhaps a forest of gold I’ll see.”

  Daerion mimicked the nobleman’s exasperation, holding a hand to his head and groaning for effect. The crowd roared.

  “He sent his men to the woods and hills, promising gold to cure her ills. But the ss stayed home, her father fed,While the nobleman ran himself half-dead.”

  Daerion began stomping his foot, picking up the pace for the final verses.

  “At st, he cried, ‘You tricked me, dear!’ ‘I did’, she ughed, ‘but let’s be clear. A dowry’s price, you cannot pay,For I’ve no pns to wed today!”

  The tavern erupted in ughter, mugs banging on tables as Daerion unched into the chorus one st time.

  “Oh, she’ll take your gold, she’ll take your nd,She’ll even take the ring that’s on your hand!But her heart is hers and hers alone, She’ll leave you standing, cold as stone.”

  With a final flourish, Daerion struck a triumphant chord, letting it linger in the air. The room was a symphony of cheers, cps, and stomping feet as he stood and gave an exaggerated bow.

  “Thank you, my friends,” he said, grinning. “You’re too kind. Shall we hear more?”

  The crowd roared its approval, demanding another tale, and Daerion ughed. “Then another you shall have!”

  The rest of Daerion’s evening unfolded like a bard’s dream. The tavern buzzed with infectious energy, and every note he pyed seemed to stoke the revelry higher. The barmaid, a cheerful brunette with a mischievous grin, kept his tankard brimming frothy ale. Between songs, she teased him, “Py another like that st one, and you’ll be drinking for free the whole week!”

  He accepted her challenge with a wink, striking up a bawdy tune that had the room in uproarious ughter. As he sang and pyed, Daerion’s eyes roamed over the crowd, and they settled on a woman seated near the corner. She was blonde, radiant, with a beauty that seemed out of pce in the raucous tavern. Her piercing blue eyes caught his, and she gave him a knowing smile before looking away, just enough to set his mind spinning.

  The pale morning light spilled through the small, cracked window of Daerion’s rented room, casting a soft glow over the tangled sheets and the blonde woman, whose name he doesn’t remember, still asleep beside him. Her hair fanned out like spun gold across the pillow, her peaceful face serene in slumber. Daerion sat up quietly, careful not to wake her, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  His belongings were scattered across the floor – his lute leaning precariously against the wall, his coin pouch half-buried under his boots. He gathered them methodically, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet. As he slipped his vest back on and fastened his belt, he gnced back at the woman one st time, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

  “She’ll wake up and remember a night well spent,” he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. “And so will I.”

  With his gear in hand, Daerion slipped out of the room and down the narrow stairs to the tavern below. The space was quieter now, the remnants of st night’s revelry evident in the scattered mugs and chairs askew. A few early risers nursed hangovers at corner tables, the barmaid wiping down the counter.

  Daerion chose a seat near the window, dropping into the chair with a satisfied sigh. He reached into his coin pouch and spilled its contents onto the table, sorting through the small pile of silver and copper.

  “Not bad,” he murmured as he counted, his lips curling into a grin. “Not bad at all.”

  When the barmaid approached, he looked up with a smile. “Eggs and bread, please. And keep the ale flowing. A man needs his energy after a night like that.”

  She chuckled. “A man like you seems to get plenty of energy wherever he goes.”

  As she walked away, Daerion tallied his earnings again. Enough for three weeks of luxury, if he pyed his cards right. Luxurious shenanigans, as he liked to call them – fine wines, richer inns, and if luck held, more nights like the st.

  Life, Daerion thought, was very good indeed.

  He sauntered out of the tavern with his lute slung casually over his shoulder, bidding a cheerful farewell to the barmaid. The crisp winter air nibbed at his cheeks, but it only added a brisk energy to his step. He hummed a tune as he strolled toward the bathhouse, the snow-dusted cobblestones crunching under his boots.

  The bathhouse, nestled within a corner of the Erindel market district, stood as a testament to the city’s mix of elven elegance and human ambition. Its arched entrance was carved from pale marble, veined with faint hints of gold. A carved relief of intertwining vines adorned the doorway, hinting at its elven origins. Inside, the air was warm and humid, perfumed with vender and chamomile. Gentle harp music pyed from and unseen source, the notes weaving effortlessly though the space.

  Daerion strode inside, removing his cloak with a flourish and handing it to a waiting attendant. “Ah, this is exactly what I needed,” he decred dramatically. “A haven of warmth and decadence to soothe the weary soul of a wandering minstrel!”

  The attendant, clearly used to theatrical types, nodded with a professional smile and gestured for Daerion to follow. They led him though a softly lit corridor into the main bath chamber. The room was expansive, with a high domed ceiling adorned with painted consteltions. A series of heated pools stretched out before him, their waters steaming invitingly. A mosaic of blue and green tiles covered the floor, forming the image of a serene river winding though a forest. Small alcoves offered more private baths, while plush lounges lines the walls for those seeking rexation.

  Daerion sighed with satisfaction as he surveyed the scene. “A temple to indulgence,” he procimed, setting his lute gently against a wall. “Truly, civilization at its finest.”

  A waiter approached him, dressed in a simple but elegant tunic, and offered a tray of neatly folded towels. “Welcome, sir. May I offer you a drink? We have an excellent selection of fine wines, or perhaps you’d prefer mulled cider on this chilly day?”

  “Wine, of course,” Daerion replied with a wink. “Your finest red, my good man. Something with a melody on the tongue, if you please.”

  The waiter nodded and disappeared, leaving Daerion to disrobe and sink into one of the central pools. The water was perfect, enveloping him in a cocoon of heat that banished the cold from his bones. He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “If this is not paradise, then I fear the gods themselves ck imagination.”

  The waiter retuned shortly, carrying a delicate crystal goblet filled with deep crimson wine. “Your wine, sir.” He said, pcing it on the edge of the pool. “And if I may be so bold, we do offer… additional services to enhance your rexation. A dy could be sent to assist with your cleansing, should you desire.”

  Daerion arched an eyebrow, a sly smile pying at his lips. “Ah, my dear fellow, while I’m sure such services are… unparalleled, I must decline. You see, my hands may be calloused from strings, but I still prefer to wash my lute by myself, if you catch my meaning.”

  The waiter chuckled politely, bowing as he withdrew. Alone again, Daerion sipped the wine, letting its rich, velvety fvour coat his tongue. He leaned back, closing his eyes and soaking in the blissful silence. For a moment, the weight of the road, the taverns, and the occasional chaos of his life melted away.

  He emerged from the water a half-hour ter, his skin pink from the heat and his spirits rejuvenated. After drying of with one of the plush towels, he dressed with care, adjusting his colourful tunic and ensuring his lute was properly slung. He left the bathhouse with a spring in his step and a renewed sense of purpose.

  The streets of Erindel bustled with te morning activity, but he navigated them with ease, his colourful attire and theatrical manner drawing more than a few curious gnces. He hummed softly to himself, a tune half-formed in his mind, as he considered his next move.

  The Silver Veil wasn’t far, perched in a quiet district lined with elegant homes and well-tended gardens. As he approached, the bar stood out with its grand fa?ade – polished stone pilrs fnking its entrance, a discreet silver sign above the door etched with flowing script.

  Inside, the atmosphere was subdued yet refined. The smell of rich oak and beeswax polish mingled with the faint aroma of fine wines. Patrons dressed in tailored coats and embroidered gowns sipped from crystal goblets, their conversations hushed. Daerion made his way to the bar, his confident posture tempered with an air of polite humility.

  A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp gaze stood behind the counter, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows as he polished a gss. He exuded authority despite his understated demeanour.

  “Good afternoon,” Daerion said with a warm smile, his voice soft but deliberate. “Might you be the proprietor of this fine establishment?”

  The man set the gss down carefully and eyes Daerion. “I am not, though I appreciate the compliment,” he said, his tone clipped yet not unkind. “That would be Master Lorinel. You’ll find him near the hearth.”

  Daerion nodded graciously and turned toward the room’s centre. Near the rge stone hearth sat an elven man, his long silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His posture was immacute, his robes simple but of impeccable quality. He radiated the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to command.

  Daerion approached; his lute slung casually over his shoulder. “Good afternoon, my lord.” He began, bowing slightly. “Am I correct in assuming you are Master Lorinel, the esteemed proprietor of this house?”

  Lorinel raised his eyes from a ledger resting on the table before him. He studied Daerion with a measured expression before inclining his head. “You assume correctly. And you are?”

  “Daerion Lysel, a humble bard in search of a stage,” he said, his smile widening. “I heard whispers of the Silver Veil’s reputation for sophistication and culture, and I thought to offer my services. If you’re open to the idea, I’d be delighted to entertain your patrons with a performance.”

  Lorinel leaned back in his chair, his sharp green eyes assessing Daerion’s every word and gesture. “The Silver Veil does not cater to every bard who strolls though its doors. My patrons expect refinement, wit and artistry. What makes you believe you can meet their standards?”

  Daerion’s expression remained unruffled. “I could give you a list of my credentials and accomplishments, but I find music speaks far better than words. Shall I py you a taste of what I can offer, Master Lorinel?”

  Lorinel gave a slight wave of his hand, gesturing toward an empty corner of the room. “Very well. Impress me and we may talk further.”

  With a confident nod, Daerion moved to the corner, his fingers already strumming the opening chords of his chosen bald as he prepared to make his mark.

  With a slight bow, he began:

  “The Moonlit Dance:

  Beneath the boughs of ancient trees, where silvered waters flow,A maiden danced with graceful ease, her steps so soft, so slow.Her hair aglow, like starlit night, her eyes a twilight hue,And all who saw her waltz that eve were bound by beauty true.

  The stars leaned close to watch her spin, the wind held back its breath,And time itself seemed caught, therein, afraid to break the rest. A knight rode forth from distant nds, his heart both bold and true, And at her side he took a stand, as heaven’s bond they knew.

  But fleeting is the moonlit dance, as fleeting as the dawn,The maiden vanished, broke his trance, and left the knight forlorn. Yet still, beneath those ancient trees, the tale is softly sung, Of love found in the fleeting breeze, when hearts are wild and young.”

  Daerion struck the final chord with a flourish, his head bowed slightly as the st note lingered in the air. The noble patrons had grown silent, their conversations paused to listen. A Smattering of polite appuse rose from the corners of the room, and Lorinel gave a slight smile.

  “You have talent, bard.” Lorinel said, his voice smooth and approving. “A touch of poetry and a keen ear for melody. You may perform here this evening, though my patrons will expect more than just pretty balds. Can you match your words to their wit?”

  Daerion straightened, a twinkle in his eye. “My tongue is as sharp as my lute is sweet, my lord. Your patrons will find me as amusing as they will find me moving.”

  Lorinel gave a short ugh. “Very well. Be here an hour before dusk to prepare. If you impress, I may offer you more than a single night’s favour.”

  Daerion bowed deeply. “You will not regret it, my lord.”

  With that, Daerion exited the Silver Veil, a smile creeping across his face. Tonight, promised to be profitable.

  He tugged his cloak tighter against the cold, his breath curling in the air as he made his way down the bustling streets of Erindel. The city was alive with activity, merchants calling out their wars, and townsfolk hurrying about their business.

  His destination y in the artisan’s quarter – a tailor of growing reputation. When Daerion finally arrived, he paused before the modest but well-kept storefront, where a sign was carved with elegant script that read: Grimbar Stitchfell – Tailor of Distinction. The Irony of a dwarf running a tailoring business wasn’t lost on him, and he smirked to himself as he pushed open the door.

  Inside, the warmth of a crackling fire greeted him, along with the scent of fresh wool and leather. Bolts of fabric were stacked neatly along the walls, and in the centre of the room stood the tailor himself, Grimbar Stitchfell. The dwarf was stout, with a thick bck beard streaked with solver and a pair of spectacles perched precariously on his wide nose. He was busy inspecting a fine silk coat, his nimble fingers deftly sewing a golden thread through its hem.

  Grimbar gnced up as Daerion entered, squinting for a moment before his face broke into a professional smile. “Ah, a new customer. Welcome to Grimbar Stitchfell’s establishment. What can I do for ye?”

  Daerion grinned, sweeping into a bow. “Good master Stitchfell, I’ve heard of your craft even from the most discerning tongues of this fine city. Imagine my surprise to find that the master tailor of Erindel is none other than a dwarf.”

  Grimbar straightened, narrowing his eyes. “And what of it, eh? Think a dwarf can’t thread a needle as fine as an elf or a man?”

  Daerion raised his hands, chuckling. “Not at all! In fact, it’s refreshing. Most of your kind seem to stick to hammer and forge. A tailor, though – now that is a bold choice, and a wise one, I might add. If your reputation is anything to go by, you’ve mastered this art just as your kin do their smithing.”

  Grimbar harrumphed, but his tone softened. “Hmph, well, I’ve always believed the finest armour a person can wear is proper attire. No sense lookin’ like a warrior if yer cloths make ye look like a beggar.”

  Daerion nodded in agreement, spreading his arms dramatically. “Precisely why I’ve come to you! I have a performance tonight at the illustrious Silver Veil, and I need something that will not only dazzle but also whisper sophistication to the nobility.”

  Grimbar rubbed his beard, looking Daerion up and down. “A performer, eh? You’ll want omething’ elegant but practical. Nothin’ too gaudy – those nobles’ll sneer at anything that looks like ye’re tryin’ too hard.” He gestured toward a rack of fine coats. “I think I’ve got just the thing.”

  The dwarf set to work, pulling out various garments for Daerion to try. After much deliberation, they settled on a deep navy-blue doublet with silver embroidery, paired with a crisp white shirt and tailored bck trousers.

  “Perfect!” Daerion excimed, admiring himself in the mirror. “Master Stitchfell, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Grimbar grunted, waving him off. “Just don’t go spillin’ wine on it, bard. Now off with ye – I’ve got work to do.”

  Daerion paid for the outfit and left the shop, feeling like a king. As he walked through the streets, he spotted a small park nestled between rows of stone buildings. It was a quiet pce, the trees bare in winter, their branches reaching up to a grey sky. He found a bench near a frozen fountain and sat down, unpacking his lute.

  The chill napped at his fingers, but Daerion strummed the strings lightly, humming to himself. This was his favourite way to prepare – a quiet moment to refine his balds and let inspiration strike. His voice echoed softly in the crisp air as he practiced adjusting a lyric here, a chord there, his theatrical fir muted but ever-present.

  Passerby paused to listen, some smiling, others simply nodding before moving on. For Daerion, it was a perfect moment of peace before the night’s performance.

  The city of Erindel basked in the golden warmth of summer, its white stone buildings glinting under the midday sun. The once crisp winds of winter had softened into a gentle breeze, carrying with it the hum of bustling markets and the ughter of children. Yet beneath the idyllic veneer of the capital, an undercurrent of unease flowed like a dark river.

  Daerion had spent the st six months as a fixture in the silver Veil, his performances drawing crowds night after night. The bar’s opulent halls, filled with Erindel’s wealthy elite, were a world away from the run-down taverns he used to perform for. The money was good – too good to ignore – but Daerion felt the weight of stagnation pressing on him. His soul yearned for new horizons, for fresh tales to weave into his balds.

  Still the Silver Veil offered more than coin. It was a hub of whispers and rumours, and over time, Daerion had pieced together a grim picture of the growing tension between the kingdom Valtheris and the rebellious city of Makar. What had begun as news of Makar’s decration of independence had spiralled into tales of oppression under Kyrell’s rule. The city’s people, once proud and defiant, were now shackled by fear.

  Reports from travellers spoke of the Enforcers, the reformed remnants of the Grey Cloaks, cd in bckened armour and bearing the ominous insignia of a bck fme. They patrolled the streets of Makar with ruthless efficiency, ensuring Kyrell’s iron will was obeyed. Those who resisted disappeared without a trace, their names whispered in hushed tones by those too afraid to mourn them openly.

  In Erindel, these stories sparked heated debates in taverns and marketpces. Some praised King Edric Valcrest for his rumoured preparations to retake Makar, others feared the bloodshed that a siege would bring, questioning whether the rebellion’s roots ran deeper than anyone dared admit.

  For Daerion, the tales of Makar were like a melody stuck in his mind – haunting and unresolved.

  As the summer sun dipped below the horizon, bathing Erindel in hues of amber and crimson, Daerion strummed his lute in the quiet of his room. He gazed out the window at the distant spires of the royal pace, wondering how much of the rumours were true – and whether the king’s pns for Makar would end in liberation or ruin.

  The moon hung low over Erindel, casting its pale light across the cobblestone streets. Daerion sat by the open window of his room at the inn, his lute lying forgotten at his side. His gaze was distant, lost in the rhythm of the city below. The murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of ughter drifted up to him, but it all felt muted, like a song pyed too many times.

  As he stared into the night, a flicker of movement caught his eye. His brow furrowed, and he leaned forward. For a moment, he thought he was imagining it. Then he saw them – figures darting across rooftops, their silhouettes barely visible against the shadows. They moved with precision, their leaps silent and calcuted. There were many of them, and a shiver ran down Daerion’s spine.

  “Perhaps I’ve had too much wine,” he muttered to himself with a theatrical wave of his hand, forcing a smile. “Or perhaps Erindel’s rooftops have simply become a stage for acrobatic rehearsals.” He chuckled dryly, though his heart remained uneasy.

  Shaking off the discomfort, he decided a drink would settle his nerves. Scooping up his lute, he draped a colourful scarf around his neck and made his way downstairs to the tavern.

  The room was alive with the hum of conversation and clinking tankards. He spotted a familiar face – a burly woodworker named Garven – and joined him at a corner table. Garven was a man of simple pleasures, his hands roughened by years of carving timber.

  “You ever think about settling down, Daerion?” Garven asked after a swig of ale.

  Daerion leaned back in his chair, a pyful grin on his face. “Settling down? My dear Garven, you might as well ask a bird to trade the sky for a gilded cage! No, my life is a song, ever-changing, ever moving. To settle is to silence the melody.”

  Garven chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got a way with words, bard. But there’s something to be said for a steady roof over your head.”

  Daerion raised his tankard in mock solemnity. “To steady roofs, my friend and the fools who trade freedom for them!”

  Their ughter was interrupted by a sudden commotion outside. The muffled sound of shouting reached the tavern, growing louder by the second.

  Daerion frowned, his drunken cheer dimming. “What now?” he muttered, pushing back his chair. Curiosity – and perhaps a touch of bravado fuelled by ale – drove him to step outside.

  The cool night air hit him, sobering him slightly. The source of the noise was clear. A glow lit ip the sky in the direction of the market district, and his heart sank. The market was abze, the fmes licking hungrily at the wooden stalls and spreading rapidly.

  “What in god’s name-?” he whispered, stumbling forward. Before he could fully process what he was seeing, a deafening explosion rocked the west side of the city. The ground beneath him trembled, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and panic.

  He pinched himself, his theatrical mind half-believing he had stumbled into some fevered nightmare. But the screams were real, and so was the chaos.

  A Wave of people surged toward him fleeing the inferno. Their faces were masks of terror, their shouts a cacophony of despair. Yet as they ran, they began to fall, one by one.

  Daerion froze, his breath caught in his throat. He looked up toward the rooftops, where the dark figures he’d seen earlier now stood, bows drawn. In the moonlight, he saw the glint of arrows nocked and ready.

  The bard’s heart raced. He stumbled back toward the inn, his mind racing.

  Daerion stumbled back inside the inn, his heart pounding like a war drum. Smming the door behind him, he leaned against it, gasping for air. The room, once filled with ughter and cheer, fell silent as the patrons turned to tare at the pale, dishevelled bard.

  “We’re under attack!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Archers – on the rooftops! The market’s abze!”

  A ripple of confusion and fear spread through the crowd. Murmurs erupted, followed by the scraping of chairs as a few brave – or foolish – souls scrambled toward the door.

  “I have to get to my family!” a man cried, pushing past Daerion. Others followed, their desperation drowning out the bard’s warnings.

  “Wait!” Daerion pleaded, his voice trembling. “You don’t understand – “

  But they didn’t listen. The door swung open, and the first man bolted into the street. The others were close behind, their urgency carrying them into the night.

  Through the open doorway, Daerion saw it unfold like a nightmare. The first man made it only a few steps before an arrow struck him in the back. He colpsed with a strangled cry, clutching at the shaft protruding from his ribs. The second runner, a woman, screamed as an arrow pierced her leg, sending her sprawling onto the cobblestones. The third – a young man no older than twenty – never even made it that far. An arrow hit him square in the throat as he crossed the threshold.

  Blood sprayed across the doorway, and the man fell backward into the inn with a sickening thud, his hands cwing at his neck. His eyes were wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, gurgling as crimson pooled beneath him.

  Daerion froze, his knees threatening to buckle. His mind struggled to process the horror before him. He had sung of battles and death countless times, spinning tales of heroics and sacrifice. But this – this was real. The sticky, metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, and his stomach churned violently.

  The room erupted into chaos.

  “Shut the door!” bellowed Garven, snapping into action. He shoved Daerion aside and smmed the door shut, throwing the bolt into pce. “Bar it! Now!”

  “Tables! Grab the tables!” someone shouted.

  The patrons scrambled to obey, dragging tables and chairs toward the entrance. Garven pushed a heavy oak table against the door and wedged it into pce. “The windows too!” he barked. “Get them covered!”

  Daerion stood paralyzed, his back pressed against the wall. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths as he watched the others work. The weight of what he had seen pressed down on him like a physical force, and for the first time in his life, the words that usually flowed so easily from his lips failed him entirely.

  The tension in the tavern was suffocating. The barmaid, Mira, emerged from the kitchen with a determined expression, her arms wrapped around a rge wooden bucket bristling with knives and a heavy cleaver banced on top.

  “Take these,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the trembling of her hands. She began handing out the knives to the patrons, one by one. “If they get in, we fight.”

  The patrons, their faces pale and drawn, clutched the makeshift weapons like lifelines. Mira pressed the cleaver into Garven’s hands, meeting his eyes with a grim nod.

  He led the group to the bar, motioning for everyone to crouch behind it. They huddled together in tense silence, the dim light of the tavern casting long shadows across their faces.

  Daerion sat at the edge of the group, still frozen in shock. A knife y untouched at his feet, forgotten. His hands were clenched into fists on his knees, and his wide, unblinking eyes stared at the bloodstain on the floor where the young man had fallen.

  Around them, the sounds of chaos from outside ebbed and flowed. Screams pierced the night, chilling and desperate. The csh of steel rang out sporadically, followed by cries of pain. Sometimes, there was the unmistakable thud of fists pounding on the door, frantic voices begging to be let in.

  “Please! Please, they’re coming! Open the door!”

  Mira bit her lip, her knuckles white as she gripped her own knife. No one moved. No one dared. Each time, the pleas were silenced by sharp cries and the thud of bodies falling outside.

  The hours dragged on, each minute feeling like an eternity. Gradually, the noise began to die down, repced by an eerie, oppressive silence. Still, no one moved. The group clung to their weapons, their breaths shallow and quiet, waiting for the next scream, the next assault.

  By the time the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the windows, their limbs were stiff, and their nerves frayed. Mira finally whispered, “It’s quiet now.”

  Garven nodded, his face grim. He stood, stretching his aching back, and motioned for everyone to stay put. “I’ll check,” he muttered, dragging the table away from the door with a low scrape.

  The group watched with bated breath as he unlocked the door and cracked it open, peering outside. The sunlight illuminated the cobblestone street, revealing a scene of devastation.

  Garven’s shoulders sagged, and he slowly shut the door. Turning back to the group, his face was pale and sombre.

  “Death,” he said quietly. “Dozens of them. Just lying there. No sign of anyone else.”

  Mira crossed herself and whispered a prayer, while others averted their eyes or let out soft, shaky breaths.

  Daerion finally tore his gaze from the bloodstained floor to look at Garven. His lips moved as to speak, but no words came. His world, once filled with song and joy, had been shattered.

  The silence in the tavern was broken by the faint, rhythmic clinking of metal. The group froze, their ears straining to catch the sound. It grew louder, more distinct – a rustling of armour and the measured tread of boots on cobblestone.

  Then came the voices, firm and authoritative. “The streets are secure! It’s safe to come out! Everyone is to gather at the city hall!”

  Garven exchanged gnces with Mira and the others, relief warring with lingering fear on their faces. Slowly, cautiously, Garven moved to the door and cracked it open again.

  “They’re here,” he said over his shoulder, his voice heavy with relief. “The military.”

  The group rose from behind the bar, their movements stiff from the long hours of tension. Daerion stood st, his face pale but his composure slowly returning. Together, they filed out into the morning light.

  The street was a grim tableau. Corpses littered the cobblestones, most of them riddled with arrows. Blood pooled in uneven gutters, staining the ground a dark crimson. The air was thick with the coppery tang of death, mingling with the faint, acrid smell of smoke from the fires.

  The soldiers moved in tight formations, their armour dented and scratched, evidence of a battle fought through the night. Among them marched archers, their bows drawn, arrows nocked as they scanned the rooftops for threats. Their faces were drawn and grim, their eyes darting with wary vigince.

  The group hesitated on the tavern steps, unsure, until a soldier caught sight of them and waved. “You there! To the city hall, now!”

  Garven nodded, pcing a steadying hand on Mira’s shoulder as they descended into the chaos. Daerion followed, his boots crunching over the bloodied cobblestones. His gaze flicked to the fallen bodies around him, and his stomach churned, but he forced himself to keep walking.

  The streets leading to the city hall were choked with survivors, tens of thousands of them huddled together. Families clung to one another, their faces etched with fear and confusion. Merchants and artisans whispered in hushed tones, their eyes darting nervously.

  Daerion felt the weight of the crowd pressing in as they joined the throng. The air buzzed with a tense, waiting energy. What was happening? What had caused such devastation in the heart of the city? And, more pressing, what would happen next?

  As they stood among the crowd, Daerion’s mind began to clear, fragments of his theatrical confidence creeping back. He straightened his shoulders, gncing around at the sea of people.

  The crowd murmured with unease as they craned their necks to catch sight of the speaker. From Daerion’s position near the edge of the mass of people, he could barely see the towering spire of the city hall. But then a voice rang out, the volume enhanced by magic, strong, commanding and deeply resonant.

  “Citizens of Erindel!” the voice called, cutting through the tension like a bde. The crowd fell silent, their collective attention riveted. “I am your king, Edric Valcrest.”

  Gasps rippled through the assembly. Even Daerion felt a jolt of surprise. The king himself addressing the people?

  King Edric continued, his voice steady but ced with gravity. “Last night, our city suffered a terrible assault. The attackers, assassins sent by the traitor Kyrell, scaled our walls under the cover of darkness. These cowards moved with precision and ruthlessness. They set fire to the market district, sowing chaos. They destroyed the main garrisons exit with explosives, trapping our soldiers and deying their response.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd, some gasping in shock, others shaking their heads in disbelief.

  “They did not enter homes,” Edric continued, his tone hardening. “Their sole purpose was to terrorize, to spread fear among our people. They perched upon our rooftops, firing arrows at anyone in the streets, making it nearly impossible for our soldiers to engage them in close combat. Their tactics were designed to weaken our resolve, to make us feel helpless.”

  Daerion swallowed hard, his hand gripping the edge of his tunic as memories of the bck-cd figures danced through his mind.

  “But hear this!” the king’s voice boomed, steel edging into his words. “They have failed. They failed because you, the people of Erindel, are strong. They failed because our military, though deyed, rallied and drove them out. They failed because this city – our city – stands united!”

  The crowd erupted into cheers, though the sound was tinged with desperation.

  Edric paused, letting the noise settle before continuing. “But this is not the end of their efforts. Kyrell’s ambition knows no bounds, and we must be prepared for the battles yet to come. My soldiers cannot stand alone. We need your help, my people. This city needs your strength.”

  His tone shifted, becoming almost pleading. “To those of you who are able-bodied and willing, I call upon you to report to the nearest garrison. We need soldiers now more than ever- men and women who will defend Erindel with courage and resolve. For those who cannot take up arms, there is still much you can do. Help us clear the streets, gather the bodies of our fallen, and repair the damage done. Wagons will be dispatched to collect the dead. Together, we will restore order and honour their sacrifice.”

  The king’s voice softened, but his”word’ were no less powerful. “I know these are dark times, but together, we will endure. Together, we will rise above this tragedy. Together, we will prove that no enemy – no matter how cunning or cruel – can break the spirit of Erindel. Stand with me, my people. Stand for our city, for our kingdom, and for the future we will build.”

  As the speech ended, silence hung in the air for a brief moment before the crowd broke into cheers and cries of support. Daerion remained still, staring at the distant city hall. The king’s words were stirring, but they did little to quell the unease curdling in his stomach.

  “Stand together,” Daerion whispered to himself, his voice barely audible amid the roar of the crowd. “Easier said than done.”

  The cheers of the crowd echoed faintly in Daerion’s ears he pushed through the throngs of people, his heart racing. The king’s words, inspiring to many, had filled him with a singur resolve: I’m not staying here.

  Erindel wasn’t his home. He wasn’t born here, and he didn’t owe it anything. The safety the city once held had been shredded, and Daerion wasn’t foolish enough to pretend he could py the hero. He was a bard, not a soldier. And Kyrell? He wanted no part in it.

  Back at the inn, he found little to no one, not surprising, most had to find family or friends to make sure they survived the attack. Daerion slipped inside, his boots clicking on the wooden floor.

  His room was small but comfortable, cluttered with the tools of his trade, a lute leaning against the wall, sheets of music strewn across the desk, and the finely tailored clothes he’d brought for his performances at the Silver Veil hung neatly in the wardrobe. All of it had served him well, but none of it would keep him alive.

  He grabbed his satchel and began packing, stuffing in the essentials first, clothing, a waterskin, and a few sheets of bnk parchment for notes – old habits die hard. His coin purse jingled heavily as he tossed it into the bag, the weight of it a small comfort. Years of performances and clever savings had left him with enough money to start over somewhere else.

  “Mihr,” he muttered to himself, gncing out the window at the smoky horizon. He had heard stories of the ocean city, a pce where merchants and sailors mingled, a pce where one could lose themselves. And it was east – far from Makar, far from Kyrell.

  He slung the lute carefully into a case and secured it to the side of his satchel. Lastly, he grabbed a small lockbox from under the bed. Inside was the majority of his savings – gold and silver coins stacked neatly. He took a moment to count them, the flint of the metal calming his nerves. It was enough to buy a horse and cover his expenses for weeks, if not months.

  As he closed the lockbox and tucked it into his bag, he gnced around the room one st time. The bedding was unmade, the wardrobe still half-full, and the smell of the inn’s kitchen wafted faintly through the cracks in the door. It was a room he had grown used to, a small sanctuary in a city that no longer felt safe.

  “Goodbye, Erindel,” Daerion said quietly, slinging the satchel over his shoulder. He took one st look around, then turned toward the door, ready to leave this life behind.

  He stepped out of the inn, the morning sun casting long shadows over the streets of Erindel. As he made his way toward the stables the streets were already bustling with activity. But it wasn’t the cheerful hum of merchants or the chatter of townsfolk – it was sombre, grim work. Men and women hoisted lifeless bodies onto wooden wagons, their faces pale and drawn. The corpses were sprawled in unnatural positions, their cloths stiff with dried blood. The occasional ctter of a body hitting the wagon bed sent shivers down Daerion’s spine.

  A few steps ahead, a young boy vomited in the gutter as his father barked at him to keep working. Dareion averted his gaze, his stomach churning. He had seen enough.

  Just keep walking, he told himself quickening his pace. But the smell followed him, acrid and inescapable, burning the back of his throat. He wanted to gag but forced himself to hold it together.

  At st, he reached the stables, a modest structure tucked between two rger buildings. The wooden sign above the door creaked in the breeze, and the faint sound of horses whinnying brought a small sense of relief.

  Inside, the stable boy was brushing down a chestnut mare. He looked up as Daerion entered, his freckled face smeared with dirt and sweat.

  “Morning,” the boy said, his voice tired.

  Daerion nodded, trying to ignore the lingering smell of manure mingling with the stench of smoke that had seeped into the city. “I need a horse,” he said. “One that can travel long distances.”

  The boy raised an eyebrow, giving Daerion a once-over. “You know how to ride?”

  “Barely,” Daerion admitted, his tone more theatrical than practical. “But I assure you, I’ll learn quickly.”

  The boy smirked, shaking his head. “Figures. You bards don’t strike me as riders.”

  Daerion rolled his eyes. “Do you have a horse or not?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve got horses,” the boy said, setting down the brush and leading Daerion to the stalls. “What kind of horse are you looking for?”

  Daerion shrugged. “One that won’t throw me off the moment I sit on it. And doesn’t eat much.”

  The boy chuckled and pointed to a pin brown gelding standing idly in its stall. “That one is sturdy and calm. Not too fast, but he won’t give you any trouble.”

  “Perfect,” Daerion said, though he couldn’t tell a good horse from a bad one. “I’ll take him.”

  “Right,” the boy said, scratching his head. “You’ll need a saddle, too. That’ll cost extra.”

  “Of course, it will,” Daerion muttered, digging into his coin purse. “Just get him ready.”

  The boy nodded and set to work, fetching a simple leather saddle and bridle. As he adjusted the straps and tightened the girth, Daerion leaned against the stall door, trying not to think about the weight of his decision.

  “Where you headed?” the boy asked, tightening the st buckle.

  “East,” Daerion replied curtly.

  “Mihr?” The boy guessed.

  Daerion nodded; his gaze distant. “Mihr.”

  The boy led the saddled horse out of the stall, patting its neck. “He’s ready.”

  Daerion handed over the coins, wincing slightly at the price but not bothering to haggle. “Thank you,” he said, gripping the reins awkwardly.

  “Good luck out there,” the boy said, stepping back.

  “Luck?” Daerion smirked faintly. “I’ll need more than that.”

  He led the horse outside, its hooves clopping against the cobblestones. The sun was climbing higher now, casting harsh light over the grim scene in the streets. Daerion took a deep breath steadying himself. East, he thought.

  The wagons piled with corpses were still making their rounds, and the occasional wail of grief cut through the oppressive quiet. Daerion kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the soldiers patrolling the streets, their dented armour a testament to the chaos of the night before.

  As he approached the city gates, the guards gave him a once-over but didn’t stop him. Perhaps a bard fleeing the city wasn’t much concern to them. Passing through the gates felt like shedding a heavy weight, and he inhaled deeply, savouring the fresher air of the open road.

  The road east was well-trodden, lined with patches of grass and wildflowers that seemed untouched by the violence in Erindel. Daerion’s horse plodded along at a steady pace, its hooves kicking ip little clouds of dust. He passed fields dotted with farmhouses, their occupants tending crops or mending fences. Some looked up as he passed, their faces marked by weariness, but Daerion kept riding offering only a fleeting gnce.

  The farther he went, the sparser the farms became, repced by untamed stretches of nd. Soon, the road entered a patch of woods, the dense canopy overhead casting dappled shadows on the ground. Birds chirped in the trees, and the occasional rustle of leaves hinted at unseen wildlife. Daerion found the quiet both soothing and unnerving.

  An hour into the woods, a gnawing unease began to settle in his stomach. He couldn’t expin it – perhaps it was the silence, too perfect and too sudden. His fingers tightened around the reins as his eyes darted from side to side, scanning the underbrush for anything out of pce.

  Then as if summoned by his worst fears, three men stepped out onto the road ahead.

  They were cd in bck armour, their helmets adorned with the unmistakable symbol of the bck fme. Two of them carried crossbows, the tips of their bolts glinting ominously in the dappled light. The third, unarmed but no less intimidating, stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of a longsword at his side.

  “Stop,” the unarmed man barked, his voice sharp and commanding.

  Daerion pulled on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly raised his hands. “Well, isn’t this just perfect,” he muttered under his breath, cursing his luck.

  The man with the longsword narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. “Get off the horse,” he ordered, his tone allowing no argument. “And hand over your bag for inspection.”

  Daerion slid off the saddle with exaggerated care, his hands still raised. “Of course, of course,” he said, his voice ced with mock cheerfulness. “Let me guess – toll collectors for this lovely stretch of road?”

  The man didn’t answer, merely pointing at Daerion’s bag. The bard sighed dramatically, muttering to himself as he untied the bag from the saddle. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he grumbled.

  As Daerion reluctantly handed over his bag, his eyes caught a clearer glimpse of the symbol on the men’s bck armour, and finally he recognized it. His theatrical demeanour faltered for a moment before he quickly recovered.

  “Kyrell’s men,” he muttered under his breath, his mind racing. Then, louder and more dramatically, he threw his hands in the air. “Oh, of course! Of all the cursed roads in all the kingdom, I had to pick this one!” He gestured around theatrically, his voice rising in mock exasperation. “Fate, you wicked mistress, have you no mercy for a humble bard?”

  The unarmed man sneered, unimpressed. “Enough whining. Hand over the reins.”

  Daerion hesitated for a fraction of a second before complying, watching as one of the crossbowmen grabbed the reins of his horse.

  “You’re coming with us,” the leader barked.

  “Ah, splendid,” Daerion said, feigning cheerfulness even as dread began to creep up his spine. “A guided tour of the local wilderness! Just what I needed.”

  The man shoved him forward. “Walk.”

  Daerion obeyed, his heart pounding as they led him deeper into the woods. The trees grew denser, their shadows stretching long in the te afternoon light. After a short walk, they arrived at a small campsite tucked away among the trees. A makeshift fire pit smouldered at the centre, and two more armoured men lounged nearby. What caught his attention, though, were the two figures tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing.

  The men were filthy, their cloths torn and bloodied. They sat slumped against the trunk, their hands bound tightly with ropes. One of them looked up as Daerion was led into the camp, his eyes hollow with exhaustion.

  The leader of the group turned to Daerion and gestured toward an empty log near the fire. “Sit.”

  Daerion complied, sinking onto the log with exaggerated care. “Well, this is cozy,” he said, forcing a nervous grin. “But I must say, the company leaves a bit to be desired.”

  “Quiet,” the man snapped. He stood before Daerion, his arms crossed. “Now, who are you?”

  Daerion hesitated, his mind racing. He didn’t want to get caught lying and didn’t see no point in it.“A humble bard,” he said finally, offering a small bow from his seated position. “Daerion Lysel, at your service. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  The man’s gre didn’t waver. “Where were you riding?”

  “East,” Daerion said, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “To Mihr. A lovely city by the ocean, or so I’ve heard. I thought it might be a nice pce to perform. You know, spread a little joy, sing a few songs-“

  “What were you pnning to do there?” the man interrupted.

  “Perform!” Daerion said, his voice rising defensively. “That’s what bards do, isn’t it? We perform. We entertain. We bring a little light to an otherwise dark world.” He gestured around theatrically. “Though I must say, your charming campsite could use a bit of levity. Shall I sing you a song?”

  The man didn’t respond, his eyes boring into Daerion. The bard’s grin faltered as the weight of the situation settled over him. His usual tricks – his charm, his wit, his humour – felt flimsy against the cold, unyielding presence of Kyrell’s men.

  The man’s gre softened, his posture rexing slightly as he studied Daerion’s face. With a sigh, he let out a low chuckle.

  “You really are a bard, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head.

  Daerion blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. “Well, yes. I did just tell you that. I could sing you a song to prove it, though it might be a tad hard to focus with all this tension in the air.”

  The man smirked. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, bard. But I’ll be honest with you – we can’t let you go.”

  Daerion’s heart sank, and he raised his hands slightly. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. I assure you, I’m absolutely harmless. You said it yourself – I’m just a bard!”

  “It’s not about you being harmless,” the man interrupted. He gestured toward the two bound figures at the tree. “Those two over there? Couriers of the king. They were trying to send word to other cities about our attack on Erindel.”

  Daerion’s eyes flicked to the prisoners, he felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

  “We’re under strict orders to keep everything about the attack a secret,” the man continued. “No news goes in or out, not until we decide it’s time. So, I’m sorry, but you can’t leave. Not right now.”

  Daerion swallowed hard. “I see,” he said slowly, trying to mask the rising panic in his voice.

  “But don’t worry,” the man said, his tone surprisingly kind. “We’ll take you to our outpost. You won’t be in chains or anything. If you want, you can sing for the men there. You seem like the type who could lift morale.”

  Daerion blinked, startled by the unexpected offer. “Sing for the men? At your outpost?”

  “Not here,” the man crified, gesturing to the surrounding woods. “We need to stay hidden for now. But once we’re at the outpost, you’ll be well taken care of.”

  For a moment, Daerion was too stunned to respond. He had expected cruelty, intimidation, maybe even death. But this… this was something else entirely.

  “You’re… oddly friendly for someone who just told me I’m not allowed to leave,” he said cautiously.

  The man chuckled. “We’re not monsters. Just soldiers following orders. Speaking of which…” He crouched down next to Daerion, his expression curious. “What do you know about Kyrell?”

  Daerion hesitated. “Not much,” he admitted. “I’ve heard the name, of course. And… well, I was in Erindel st night, so I saw the aftermath of your attack.”

  The man nodded, leaning back on his heels. “Kyrell is a good leader. Strict, yes, but fair. Makar’s never been in better shape.”

  Daerion tilted his head. “Better shape? After everything I’ve heard, I find that hard to believe.”

  The man shrugged. “There’s no crime in Makar. Poverty is a thing of the past. Everyone has a job, and if they don’t get one, they are assigned one.”

  “Assigned one?” Daerion echoed.

  The man nodded. “If you loiter too often or refuse work, you’re sent to a work camp. There, you earn your keep. It’s not pleasant, but it’s fair.”

  “Fair,” Daerion repeated, his tone sceptical.

  “Better than the chaos we had before,” the man said firmly. “People know the rules. They follow them. Sure, we’ve had to make examples of a few troublemakers – executions and whatnot – but that’s the price of order.”

  Daerion stared at the man, a mix of fascination and unease swirling in his chest. “And you believe in this?” he asked quietly.

  The man met his gaze without flinching. “I do.”

  Daerion was at a loss for words.

  He took a shaky breath, trying to collect his thoughts. “I have to ask, why attack Erindel like that? Why not march in with soldiers, y siege, decre war? Instead, you sent assassins to kill civilians. How can that be just?”

  The man looked at Daerion for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he sighed, his shoulders recing slightly. “I see your point, bard. Truly, I do. But we aren’t many. Kyrell’s forces are nothing compared to the armies of Valtheris. If we marched on Erindel openly, we’d be crushed before we even reached the gates. We have to take every advantage we can get no matter how… unsavoury it might seem.”

  Daerion frowned. “Lowering morale by sughtering innocents? That’s what you call a war tactic?”

  The man’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “It’s a brutal truth, but it’s the truth all the same. And let me tell you something, bard – Erindel should count itself lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Daerion repeated, his tone sharp.

  “Yes.” The man’s voice dropped, growing colder. “Lucky that Kyrell only sent those assassins. If he had walked into that city himself, Erindel would be nothing but ruin. The people? Dead, or worse – driven insane.”

  Daerion looked at him in disbelief. “Surely you cant be serious.”

  The man’s gaze hardened, and his voice took a grim edge. “I am. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. When Kyrell wants or needs to, he can be a camity, there is no force on this earth that can resist him. Not walls, not armies, not even the gods themselves.”

  Daerion shuddered. “And yet… you follow him? Despite all of that?”

  The man’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “I do. Because I see how those that follow him can enjoy their lives, while those who oppose him, lose theirs. Its not a matter of believes, staying alive tends to outweigh principles.”

  Daerion stared at the man, his mind reeling. The image of Kyrell that the soldier painted was nothing short of terrifying. And yet, as much as he wanted to dismiss it as fearmongering or propaganda, the conviction if the soldier’s voice was undeniable.

  The soldier leaned against a nearby tree, his helmet dangling casually from his hand as he said, “Here is how this is going to work. When evening comes, we’ll be moving you and those two,” he nodded toward the prisoners, “to the outpost. It will be on foot, and you will be guarded by two of my men. Keep your mouth shut, your head down, and don’t try anything stupid.”

  Daerion raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m nothing if not cooperative, my good sir. You’ll find me meek as a mb.”

  The soldier smirked. “I hope so.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Name’s Harkan, by the way.”

  “Ah, Harkan, a name destined for balds.” Daerion said theatrically, though his smile was thin. “I will make a note of it should I survive this ordeal.”

  Harkan let out a dry chuckle. “You’re a strange one, bard. I’ll give you that. Now, sit tight. I’ve got work to do.”

  With that, Harkan gestured to the two crossbowmen, and the three of them moved back toward the road.

  As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, casting the forest in shades of amber and gold, the atmosphere in the camp shifted. The two guards who had remained behind approached the prisoners, their expressions impassive as they untied the ropes securing them to the tree.

  “On your feet,” one of them barked, yanking one of the bound men to a standing position. The other prisoner was hauled up shortly after, and the guards gave them both a quick shove to line them up.

  Daerion watched the scene unfold with a sinking feeling in his stomach. When one of the guards turned toward him, he quickly got to his feet, raising his hands in what he hoped was a nonthreatening gesture.

  “You too, bard,” the guard said, his tone curt.

  “Of course, of course,” Daerion replied, brushing off his trousers with exaggerated care. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you fine gentlemen waiting.”

  The soldiers exchanged a gnce but said nothing. They moved to either side of the small group, their weapons at the ready as they prepared to guide the prisoners into the deepening twilight. On the way out of camp the guard at the end of the group, untied the reins of Daerion’s horse and lead it with them.

  The walk through the woods had been a quiet one, the only sounds coming from the rustling of leaves in the wind and the occasional clink of armour. Daerion’s feet ached from the uneven forest path, but he dared not compin. When the trees finally began to thin, the bard let out a soft, involuntary sigh of relief.

  The outpost came into view, illuminated by the pale glow of the rising moon. It sat in a rge clearing surrounded by a sturdy wooden palisade. The construction, though simple, was clearly well-maintained and functional. Torches burned at regur intervals along the walls, casting flickering light across the clearing. From the gate, the muffled sounds of voices and movement could be heard.

  As the group approached, the gate creaked open, revealing a scene of organized chaos. Tents were pitched in neat rows, and campfires dotted the clearing, with soldiers gathered around them eating, sharpening weapons, or speaking in low tones. Despite its temporary nature, the outpost had an air of permanence and readiness.

  Daerion tried to suppress the growing lump in his throat as the group stepped inside. The soldiers guarding the gate greeted the returning men with curt nods and wary gnces at the prisoners.

  “Got a couple of royal messengers,” the soldier expined to one of the gate guards, jerking his thumb toward the two bound men. “They were trying to make it to the next city to rally aid. Toss them in the cage for now.”

  The prisoners were promptly handed off to a pair of waiting soldiers, who grabbed them roughly by the arms and led them toward a small, makeshift prison built from thick wooden stakes.

  “And this one?” one of the gate guards asked, gesturing to Daerion.

  The soldier smiled. “A bard. Not a spy, as far as we can tell. Could be useful to keep around.”

  The guard snorted. “A bard, huh? Bring him to Marshall Orvin, he needs to give his approval for him to stay.”

  They wound through the maze of tents, passing groups of soldiers who paused to gnce at Daerion. The bard kept his head high, his theatrical demeanour faltering only slightly under the weight of so many curious eyes.

  Finally, they stopped in front of the rgest tent, its entrance fnked by two stern-looking guards. The soldier turned to Daerion and motioned toward the entrance. “This is the command tent. You’ll be meeting Orvin, the marshal in charge here. He’ll decide what we do with you.”

  Daerion hesitated for a moment, then gave a dramatic sigh. “Ah, the life of a bard – always and audience, even when one doesn’t want it.”

  The soldier smirked slightly before pulling back the fp of the tent and gesturing for Daerion to step inside.

  He stepped into the tent with the soldier at his side. The interior was dimly lit by a rge oil mp hanging from the centre pole, casting flickering shadows over a table strewn with maps, reports, and an assortment of weapons. Behind the table sat a man Daerion assumed was Marshal Orvin. His broad frame and grizzled demeanour matched the image of a seasoned leader, his expression one of practiced calm as he studied the papers before him.

  However, it wasn’t Marshal Orvin who drew Daerion’s attention. Standing on the opposite side of the table was a young man, no older than eighteen by the bard’s estimate. He was strikingly composed, dressed in an impeccable tailored bck coat embroidered with fine silver detailing. His hair, dark as midnight, was neatly kept, and his posture radiated authority far beyond his years.

  The soldier beside Daerion started to speak. “Marshal Orvin, I have picked up a bard –“ he stopped abruptly, his words catching in his throat as the young man turned to face them.

  “Lord Kyrell,” the soldier stammered, his face paling as he immediately dropped to one knee. “My apologies, my lord. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  Kyrell’s gaze flicked to the soldier with an unsettling calm. “There is no need for apologies,” he said, his voice smooth and even, carrying a weight that made Daerion’s stomach twist. “Please, don’t let me interrupt your duties. Introduce the man.”

  The soldier hesitated, visibly nervous, before standing and gesturing to Daerion. “This is… a bard we found on the road, my lord. He was heading east, away from Erindel. I brought him here to get Marshall Orvin’s approval for him to stay and py for the troops. I… I am sure he isn’t a spy.”

  As the soldier spoke, Daerion took in Kyrell’s appearance more closely. Despite his youthful face, there was an undeniable gravity to him, a quiet power that seemed to fill the room. His pale skin was fwless save for one unsettling feature: a thin crack running down his right cheek, as though he were made of delicate porcein that had fractured. It wasn’t a scar, nor did it appear to be a wound, but something else entirely.

  Marshal Orvin gave Daerion a long, appraising look before nodding slowly. “Very well. The bard may stay. However, he’ll sleep in the tent beside the prisoners. There are guards posted, so don’t think about trying to slip away.”

  He turned his attention fully to Daerion, his tone softening slightly. “What’s your name, bard?”

  Daerion straightened and gave a flourish bow, his theatrical instincts kicking in despite the tension. “Daerion Lysel, at your service, Marshal.”

  Orvin’s expression remained impassive. “Well, Daerion Lysel, welcome to the outpost. Go and get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  Daerion nodded, bowing once more. “My thanks, Marshal.” He turned on his heel, preparing to leave the tent, when Kyrell’s voice cut through the air, calm yet commanding.

  “Wait, Daerion.”

  The bard froze, a shiver running down his spine at the sound of his name. Slowly, he turned back to face Kyrell, whose piercing gaze seemed to reach straight into his soul.

  “Sing us a bald,” Kyrell said, a faint almost imperceptible smile curling one corner of his mouth.

  Daerion’s stomach twisted into knots, but he forced a confident smile onto his face. “Of course, my lord. If someone could fetch my lute?”

  One of the guards quickly left the tent, returning moments ter with Daerion’s beloved instrument. Daerion took it nervously and started to strum the strings lightly, testing the tune as his mind raced.

  What to py? Something neutral? A safe, well-loved cssic?

  But then a bold thought struck him. The bald about Kyrell. He barely remembers it, but he was confident to improvise the rest.

  He looked up, meeting Kyrell’s gaze, and made his choice.

  “This is a song,” Daerion began, his voice steady despite the wild beating of his heart, “of a man who has become a legend.”

  With a flourish he struck the opening chords.

  “In the city of shadowed spires, where honour once stood tall,A name was whispered through the streets, Kyrell – who brought the fall.The banners fell, the torches dimmed, as silence cimed the square, And hope dissolved like morning mist, beneath the rebel’s stare.

  With iron fist and bckened fme, he tore the old world down, The council’s heads adorned the gates, his prize – a stolen crown.In every square, the scaffold rose, where justice turned to dread, And voices that defied his reign soon joined the countless dead.

  The enforcers cd in shadow’s hue, their eyes a hollow gre,Patrolled the streets with heavy boots, a burden none could bear.No ughter graced the marketpce, no songs within the halls,Just whispered prayers and muffled cries behind the city walls.

  The common folk tail day and night beneath his cold decree,“Work or waste not,” Kyrell commands, “for none of you are free.”The hungry line the crumbling streets, their hope a fleeting ember,For mercy is a fleeting ghost no soul dares to remember.

  But some recall the days long gone, before his cruel ascent,When Makar stood proud and free, unbowed, unbroken, bent. Yet dreams of such a life are chains, a crime that none confess,For words of hope are treason here, and silence brings success.

  Oh, Kyrell, king of ash and fme, you carve your empire wide, But what remains of those you rule when hearts and homes have died?A pyre burns beneath your throne, its embers ever cruel, A crown of fear upon your brow, a kingdom dark and rule.

  In the city of shadowed spires, the tale is often told,Of Kyrell’s reign, the Bck Fme’s wrath, and hearts grown hard and cold. The banners fell, the torches dimmed, as silence cimed the square,And hope dissolved like morning mist beneath the rebel’s stare.

  As Daerion’s final note faded into the heavy silence of the tent, his hands trembled slightly on the strings of his lute. He gnced nervously around. Orvin’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a tight line. The soldier who had escorted Daerion stood rigid as if he might colpse, his wide eyes fixed on Kyrell.

  Kyrell, however, remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Daerion with an unreadable expression. The crack in his cheek seemed almost alive in the flickering ntern light. Then suddenly, he threw his head back and ughed – a rich, hearty sound that filled the tent and sent a chill down Daerion’s spine.

  Daerion swallowed hard, feeling his heart pound in his chest. The soldier beside him flinched, looking as though he might faint at any moment. Orvin looked completely stunned, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to form words.

  Kyrell’s ughter gradually subsided, and he wiped a hand across his face as though to wipe away tears of mirth. “Well, well,” he said, his voice calm but ced with amusement. “That was… unexpected.” He stepped closer to Daerion, his piercing gaze locking onto the bard.

  “You certainly have a way with words, bard,” Kyrell said, his tone light bur sharp enough to make Daerion feel unwell. “A song like that might get you killed in the wrong company.”

  Daerion tried to manage a reply, but his voice caught in his throat.

  Kyrell waved a hand dismissively, his smile returning. “Rex, Daerion. That was bold, I’ll give you that. And I appreciate boldness. For now, that’s enough. Go rest.” He paused, his smile widening. “But tomorrow at noon, I expect to see you here again. We’ll have more to discuss.”

  The dismissal was clear, and Daerion bowed hastily, muttering a quick “Thank you, my lord.” He turned and practically fled the tent, his legs feeling like jelly beneath him.

  A guard escorted him to his tent, which was small and situated near the makeshift prison where the other captives were kept. The guard handed him a thin bnket and gestured inside without a word.

  Once inside, Daerion colpsed onto the cot, his lute pced carefully at his side. He undressed slowly, his hands trembling as the adrenaline began to wear off. Lying down, he stared at the tent’s fabric ceiling, cursing his luck under his breath.

  “Stumbling straight into the Bck Fme himself,” he muttered. “Of all the cursed twists fate could take…”

  He pulled the bnket over himself and closed his eyes, though sleep didn’t come easily. The image of Kyrell’s crackling smile lingered in his mind, as did the ominous thought of what the next day might bring.