The tavern was alive that night. A wash of orange lamplight spilt across polished wood tables, casting shadows that danced with the movement of mugs, plates, and laughter. The air was thick with the warm scent of roasted meats and the sharper tang of spiced wine. Music rattled from a corner where a bard plucked at his lute, his voice half-drowned by the cheers of a crowd that wanted only to celebrate.
Kieran had insisted on this. "Two of us made it to the main tournament," he'd said earlier, his grin so wide it had seemed permanent. "We're not letting it pass without a drink. And if it's just the four of us, it'll be depressing as hell."
So Annie came, dragging along a handful of her friends—bright-eyed students with nerves worn thin from training and now desperate to burn their stress with drink and song. Brock and Tanaka had been dragged into the circle too, though it didn't take much coaxing before Brock was clinking mugs with strangers and Tanaka had found a quiet corner where one of Annie's friends kept pestering him to teach her how to throw cards like he did.
The laughter was effortless.
Roy sat at the edge of the table, half-shadowed by the flicker of a candle that sputtered in the draught from the open windows. His chest was usually light, but tonight it felt heavier than usual, like it was waiting for him to put it back on. His fingers curled around the rim of his mug, the froth long since dead, untouched.
Across from him, Kieran threw an arm around Annie's shoulders, laughing so loud it made a few nearby patrons glance over. She smacked him lightly on the chest, feigning offence, but her smile betrayed her amusement. Brock raised his drink for the fifth toast of the night, slurring slightly, while Tanaka muttered dry commentary that only drew more laughter.
It should have been enough.
Roy could smile. He could even laugh if he wanted. He could throw back his head, pretend to drink until the taste of bitterness coated his tongue, and force himself into the rhythm of their joy. But something in him always caught, like a misaligned gear, refusing to turn the same way theirs did.
Why am I not like them?
The question circled in his head like a vulture, picking at every flicker of mirth around him.
I can mimic it. I can pull the corners of my lips upward and let sound spill out like laughter. I can feel the sting of sadness, the warmth of companionship, and the pulse of anger. The emotions are there. And yet… there's a line I can't seem to cross.
They look so natural. Kieran's laugh isn't just a sound; it's alive, like a virus, contagious. Brock's toasts aren't just words; they carry weight and sincerity. Even Annie, with her effortless gestures and teasing smirks, breathes life into a room with nothing but a glance.
And me?
I'm just there. Always.
I can hold a sword, I can break men, and I can even terrify a commander of the Celestial Watch. But here, in this place, among people who are supposed to be my friends, I feel like an actor on a stage reciting lines that don't belong to me.
Maybe it's a curse. Maybe a witch who tied herself to me. Maybe it's the deaths I have caused, the countless ones I've made people endure, and the weight of every scream I still hear when I close my eyes.
Or maybe it's just me.
Maybe I've always been wrong.
The worst part is that no one notices. Not really. They see the smiles, the sarcasm, and the casual remarks. They think I'm here with them, drinking in the same light. But I'm standing behind glass—close enough to see it all, to want it, but never able to touch.
And no matter how hard I try, that glass won't shatter.
"Oi, Roy!"
Kieran's voice jolted him from the spiral. He blinked and found half a dozen pairs of eyes on him, mugs raised in expectation.
"You're spacing out again," Kieran teased, his grin half-drunk, half-genuine. "We're toasting to tomorrow—main tournament, baby! Say something, man!"
Roy raised his mug automatically. He smiled, letting the candlelight catch on his teeth just enough to pass for genuine. "To tomorrow," he said, voice steady.
The mugs clinked together with a cheer. Ale spilt onto the table. Someone laughed too loud, and the bard switched to a faster tune to match the energy.
Roy drank this time, just to make it convincing. The bitterness coated his tongue, sharp enough to anchor him back into the moment.
And for a fleeting second, he almost believed he belonged.
Almost.