He chuckled, the wheeze less sharp in his ribs this time. "Dead sober. You know the people here, the rules. Please, help me keep from scaring everyone off."
That got through to her. Nia's shoulders eased, her eyes scanning him like she was weighing his sincerity.
"The harvest festival's coming up," she said. "We'll need help at the tavern; serving drinks, clearing tables. And not terrifying the guests. Think you can manage that?"
"I'll try to be… less alarming," Jace said, though his mind was blank on how.
Her expression softened, just a fraction. "Wart, you can change how you act, but…" She tipped her chin toward his face. "That's a challenge."
"My face's personal quest to redefine 'ugly'?" he said.
That almost got a smile. "I meant your situation. If you're serious about this, you've got a shot. It'll take work."
She didn't offer a handshake—just lifted her hand halfway, palm out, a quiet truce. "Deal?"
"Deal." Jace dipped his head. "Thanks, Nia."
⸻
[QUEST COMPLETED: "First Spark of Charm"]
[Rewards: 10 Charm Points + Skill: "Wry Quip"]
[Wry Quip: +5% chance to defuse tension with humor]
[Current Charm Points: 10]
⸻
Jace tried for a grin. His mouth got halfway there.
******
The harvest festival painted the village in red and gold. Banners snapped overhead in the wind, market stalls bulged with bread, cheese, and roast boar. Sweet cider steam curled over the cobblestones. For a few moments, Jace could almost forget the face people turned away from.
Inside The Rusty Goblet, the crowd packed in shoulder-to-shoulder, coins clinking, mugs slamming, laughter spilling into the air as thick as the smell of ale. The place felt like a battlefield in a good mood. Jace slid through the chaos, his bulk bouncing off no one—people shifted aside without thinking, leaving him a bubble of space. Handy, if a little insulting. He'd made it through dozens of orders without dropping a mug, though a merchant's wife had nearly passed out catching his reflection in a pitcher. Progress, by his standards.
Nia flew between the bar and the kitchen, braid swinging, ribbon flashing in the light. Her cheeks glowed with heat and motion. "Table seven, more ale!" she called.
He nodded, shifting a tray into his hands. As he moved, he kept one ear on the bards in the corner steering the mood with song, picking up on how people leaned into or away from certain lines. Little lessons for later.
Then the tavern's energy tilted. Conversations faltered, like someone had turned down the volume. A man strode in; sun-bright hair, doublet stitched in silk and smugness. Dren Holt. The kind of face that belonged in a portrait, the kind of confidence that assumed the room was already his. His gaze locked on Nia and didn't move.
"Good afternoon, fair lady," Dren said, smooth as butter. "Dren Holt. I've been robbed of your acquaintance far too long."
Nia's expression stayed professional. "Nia Kell. Drink?"
"Your attention," Dren said, leaning on the bar. "Rumors of the loveliest barmaid don't do you justice."
Jace winced. That line was straight from his old playbook—and exactly wrong for Nia. Her jaw set. "What'll you drink?"
"Something we could share?"
"I'm working," she said, voice clipped.
Dren edged closer. "A beauty like you shouldn't slave for peasants. I could offer elegance. Estates. A real life."
"I'm fine here." She angled away again.
He caught her wrist, light grip but deliberate. "Just one—"
"She told you to back off." Jace's voice cut through the room like a cracked bell.
The tavern went still.
Dren turned slow, disbelief dripping off him. "Did… that speak to me?"
"Your hair oil clog your ears?" Jace asked, setting down his tray. "She said no."
Someone in the back snorted. A few others smothered laughs.
Dren's color rose. His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger. "You deformed wretch, I'll have you whipped."
"And I'll sell tickets to watch you fail at basic manners," Jace said.
The tension was sharp enough to cut. Dren's grip shifted on the dagger. Before steel could clear the scabbard, the door slammed open.
Five guards in polished mail stepped in, flanking a hooded figure whose stillness carried weight. The figure raised a hand, pointing to Jace and Dren, then turned and left without a word.
"You two," one guard barked. "Move."
"This is absurd!" Dren snapped. "I'm Dren Holt, son of—"
"Now," the guard said, with enough finality to quiet the rest.
Jace glanced at Nia. She looked torn between worry and shock.
"Nia, thanks for the shot. I'll—"
"Move." The guard's shove put him in motion.
Outside waited a carriage that was nothing like a prison wagon—black wood glossed to a mirror shine, gold filigree curling along the panels, wheels banded in silver. Four horses stood so still they could have been carved from midnight.
"Well," Jace muttered as the guards waved them inside, "this is fancy."
The velvet seats swallowed him whole, the burgundy cushions soft under his elbows. Sunlight poured through crystal-clear windows, throwing crisp detail over the passing street. The hooded figure sat across from him, their silence pressing down heavier than the guards' armor.
Dren collapsed into his seat, sputtering. "This is an outrage! I'm Dren Holt—heir to trade networks, diplomatic immunity! My father will—"
Jace kept his eyes on the window. Cobblestones blurred into farmland and orchard rows. Doorways glowed with enchanted lanterns. Somewhere in his chest, something loosened. This world was loud, colorful, alive in a way Earth hadn't been in years.
"You listening?" Dren snapped. "We're in this together!"
"Just shut it," Jace said. Estates rose past the glass now, neat gardens replacing fields. The wheels clattered onto smooth stone, and ahead, gray towers reached for the sky above carved gates and tiled courtyards.
"Gods," Dren whispered. "The royal palace."
Through the gates, the carriage wound between marble colonnades and sun-struck windows. Murals of battle and coronation stared down from the walls. They stopped before massive doors that breathed authority.
"His Majesty's waiting," a guard said.
The throne room was all polished floor and measured grandeur, sunlight spilling over marble and silver. The king—steel-haired, broad-shouldered—sat like a man who didn't have to prove anything.
Nobles lined the left wall, the hooded figure among them. Advisors stood to the right, eyes sharp. Four others were already before the throne: a mercenary with a scarred jaw, a mage clutching a staff, a sleek noble in jewel-trimmed robes, and a woman with auburn hair who looked like she'd cut a purse while smiling.
The guards pushed Jace and Dren into the row, making six. The hooded figure inclined their head toward the king.
The king rose, his voice carrying easily. "Lords, ladies, friends—welcome to a day that will not be forgotten."