Chapter 12: A Broken Promise
Matthias Harlow
Crooked Pike, Dregsdon
1253
"…we didn't have kings in America. There were still a few scattered around the world, but they were mostly figureheads. The people who ruled us were the ones we chose to rule."
Dregsdon at night was a different creature. The moon cast a milky sheen over the crooked roofs whenever it peeked out from behind thick, bruised clouds.
The mud glistened like wet clay, the air smelled of damp straw and chimney smoke, and for a brief stretch of road I could pretend the night was calm. Serene, even.
"What, like a Skelligan kingsmoot except everyone gets a say?" Syanna asked. Her brows shot up. "That sounds chaotic."
"Well, not everyone," I said, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped. Her comparison was closer than she knew.
"There were rules. You had to be eighteen and a citizen of the country to vote. But you're right. It sounds good on paper, choosing someone you think has your best interests at heart." I shrugged.
"Most people are idiots, all politicians are liars, and it ends in half the country hating the other half. Still, compared to the alternatives, I'd pick democracy every time."
"Democracy," she echoed, tasting the word. "Is that what it's called? And the alternatives? What, a monarchy?"
"Well, that and a dictatorship— and before you ask," I added quickly, seeing her mouth already half-open, "a dictator's basically a king who never earned it."
She blinked. "Never earned it, a tyrant?"
"Yes. No vote, no kingsmoot, no blood right, nothing. Just power. Sometimes they take it by force, sometimes folk hand it over because they're scared or desperate… but once they've got it, that's it. One person making every decision for everyone else. No council, no nobles, no say from the people. And if you don't agree with them?"
I gave a small, humourless laugh. "Well. Then you disappear, or your life becomes very, very unpleasant."
Syanna's nose wrinkled. "So… the worst sort of king."
"The worst sort of person," I corrected gently. "Power without limits makes monsters out of weak men. Every time."
Her brow furrowed at that, a day ago the comment would have sparked another argument, but she simply thought it over and wryly says
"Then it's a wonder kings don't turn into beasts the moment they're crowned," she said.
I let out a short scoff, more exhale than laugh.
"Give them enough time and they'll start demanding to bed your wife on your wedding night, or take seventy percent of the grain you spent moons growing, or drag your sons off to die in their wars. It's the way the world works, Syanna. When no one's allowed to tell you 'no,' you just keep taking. And when someone finally does refuse… you take it as an insult."
She didn't argue. Didn't bristle. She only walked in silence beside me, boots sinking in the wet muck, letting what I'd said settle wherever it would.
Our discussion took a pause as we turned the last corner.
The Crooked Pike came into view, but not in the state we had left it. The street glinted under torchlight.
The wooden sign above the door creaked in the wind like a weary limb. And in front of the inn stood two armed men.
They were rough around the edges in that unmistakable way of half-trained soldiers.
Their armor was mismatched: a worn Temerian cuirass here, a Kaedweni-style pauldron there.
One wore a helmet that clearly wasn't fitted for him; it sat askew, wobbling every time he shifted his feet.
The other had a gambeson that was one hard tug from unraveling. Their boots were caked in mud to the ankles.
And yet, despite their sloppy attire and the fact that neither looked like he'd run a mile in a decade, they were armed well enough: longswords at their hips, daggers strapped visibly for deterrence.
A small fortune for a village this small. Far more than any simple Ealdorman should be able to afford.
When they noticed us approaching, both men snapped to attention with surprising discipline. Straightening spines. Eyes forward. One hand to the sword hilt, the other to the heart.
A proper Temerian salute. My stolen memories named it before I consciously recognized it.
Former army. Veterans fallen on hard times. I had underestimated them.
"Greetings, sire. My lady," one said, voice gravel-throated from too much cheap drink or the sort of tobacco that came in crumbling bricks wrapped with twine.
The other dipped his head with the stiff, uncomfortable politeness of a man unused to bowing.
His eyes were sharper than his posture suggested, watching everything, weighing everyone.
The first man straightened his back, drawing in a breath as if remembering a speech he had been practicing in his head.
"I'm Vott," he said, thumping a fist to his chest in a belated salute. "Former spearman with the Temerian Third. This here's my brother, Branik."
Branik gave a short, curt nod. No sound followed it.
"Mute since birth," Vott explained with a shrug that was meant to be casual, but there was the faintest edge of protectiveness in it. "Speaks with his hands well enough, though. Better than most speak with their mouths."
Branik signed something quick and precise. Vott nodded.
"Aye, aye, I'll get to it," he muttered to his brother, then looked back to us. "Ealdorman Wencel would be honoured to have a word with you both. Says it's… important, he's been bothering poor Mira looking for you since we got here."
They made way, as we approached, I nodded to them as we move passed them and entered the inn proper, "Well met to you both."
I opened the well worn wooden door to a commotion I had heard play out from a distance.
"-ld you let a knight and a lady stay in this hovel you call an inn, Mira? You should have sent word! At least Jorren had the good sense to call for me," came a warbling voice.
Ealdorman Wencel stood in the middle of the common room like a man who believed simply occupying space made him important.
He was as Jorren had informed us a heavy set man, his cheeks were flushed a blotchy red, neck lost somewhere in the folds of his collar.
Average height, though the swell of his belly pushed his belt so far forward it gave him the silhouette of a wobbling teapot.
He'd dressed for the occasion, that much was obvious. His 'best clothes' were a deep blue doublet whose seams strained like they were begging for mercy, the fabric thick and far too fine for everyday wear.
It had that stiff look of garments kept in a chest for special moments that never came. The gold thread along the cuffs glimmered bravely despite having been tugged to near distortion.
His boots were polished so aggressively I suspected he'd spent the last hour wheezing over them, and the scent of clove oil still clung to the leather.
Even his thin attempt at a combed-back hairstyle suggested he'd dragged fingers through his thinning hair in hope of looking presentable.
He stood with his hands planted on his hips, breathing heavily through his nose, trying—desperately—to look like a man accustomed to commanding knights and ladies, rather than a village ealdorman playacting nobility in the middle of no where.
"To be fair to Mira," I interrupted, keeping my tone mild, "plenty of people could've warned you of our arrival long before we reached this 'hovel,' as you put it."
That alone quieted a few murmurs.
But it was Rhenawedd's voice—cool, smooth, cutting cleanly through the room—that truly froze them.
She stepped past me with an authority only people used to being obeyed seemed to command.
"And if we had any intent of seeing you," she continued, every word precise, "we would have made it known."
The effect was immediate—like someone had struck a tuning fork against the Ealdorman's pride.
Wencel's mouth opened, then closed again, his jowls quivering with the effort of recalibrating himself.
Around him, the gathered patrons shrank back, eyes darting between her poised expression and his blotchy, offended sputter.
The room went still.
Not silent but still in the way a tavern gets when everyone suddenly realizes they might be witnessing something important.
Wencel blinked at her, thrown off balance in a way no physical shove could have accomplished. His mouth worked once, twice, like a trout hauled unexpectedly onto a riverbank.
"L–Lady Lysene," he managed at last, his voice wobbling as much as his stance. He dipped into something that aspired to be a bow but landed somewhere nearer to a beleaguered curtsy. "I—ah—I meant no offense. None at all. I merely—well—protocol, you see, and—"
"Protocol?" she echoed lightly, one brow lifting.
That single word had more steel in it than the two guards outside combined.
Wencel swallowed, throat bobbing like it was trying to escape the fat around it. "Aye, well—yes—protocol, tradition, and… and courtesy, of course. A knight and a lady of standing made to stay in such uncomfortable lodgings is… unusual."
I stepped forward before he could talk himself into a hole so deep we'd need a rope to get him out.
"Ealdorman," I said with a careful nod, "you seem well-informed for someone who wasn't warned."
A few patrons snorted softly into their mugs. Mira hid a smile behind her hand.
Color crept higher up Wencel's cheeks, blooming across his face like a blush forced at swordpoint.
"Yes, well—the moment Jorren said he needed my help buying a horse of a knight and his ward, I thought it best to extend… hospitality." He gestured around the tavern, the faintest glimmer of pride in his eyes.
"I run a respectable village, ser. We take care of our own—and those who would champion our needs."
Champion.
There it was.
The first hint of what he actually wanted.
I exchanged the briefest glance with Rhenawedd, and from the slight downturn of her mouth, she had caught it too.
Wencel cleared his throat, smoothing his doublet, which only made the buttons strain harder.
"If you'd be so good," he said, breath wheezing faintly, "perhaps we might speak… privately? It would be an honor to host you while you are in town."
The tavern watched with the keen hunger of people hoping this conversation might turn into a story worth retelling for years.
I was curious what he wanted and by the lack of biting retort, so was Rhenawedd, so I would have to disappoint them. "You will have to wait a bit.
Then I walked towards Mira, to where she'd been standing behind the bar and took my helm where I'd left it with her, "Thank you for looking after this,"
I reached into my pouch and handed her what I owed for the food and the baths she had run that we had yet to take.
"And thank you for the meal." I had given mine to a child on the way to Rhenawedd, "we'll be taking those baths now."
"Of-of course! Sir and it was no bother." She said with a blush as her hands rubbed against my gauntleted ones to pick up the coins, her blue eyes traveled to mine red ones, she almost held my sight for more than a moment before she looked away.
Hmm
She was a pretty woman.
Not the kind of beauty sung about by bards, but the sort that settled quietly into a room.
Her hair was a soft, sun-kissed blonde, gathered into a loose braid that looked like she'd done it while hurrying between chores.
One lock curled stubbornly along her cheek, brushing against skin paler than those around her from winters spent indoors.
Her blue eyes were gentle, wide-set, framed by thick, naturally dark lashes that made her look perpetually earnest, perpetually honest.
When she smiled (and she seemed like someone who smiled often), faint crow's-feet gathered at the corners, soft and shallow.
Her features were soft, welcoming. Her face itself was pleasingly shaped, rounded cheeks, a small straight nose, and a mouth that seemed always on the verge of a smile, even when she was nervous.
There was nothing sharp or haughty about her features; everything was soft, gentle, inviting. Someone you trusted on sight.
There was strength to her, too. She had the build of someone who worked for a living: sturdy, capable.
Sleeves rolled to her elbows revealed forearms lightly freckled, corded with the subtle strength earned from hauling buckets and balancing heavy platters.
Her accent was undeniably Temerian—rounded vowels, softened consonants, a gentle lilt shaped by farmland and muddy roads.
When she spoke, it came out shy and warm, like she was afraid of being rude simply by addressing someone in armor.
And when she blushed it climbed all the way to the tips of her ears.
She tried to hide it by looking down at the coins in her hand, but the flush stayed bright, lingering long enough to betray her.
Like I said—pretty. The kind of girl I normally wouldn't have hesitated to try my luck with. In another life, another body, another… everything, really.
She had that warm, wholesome charm that made flirting feel less like a gamble and more like a shared joke.
But as things stood now?
As I was now?
I'd more than likely break her back if I tried anything—and not in the way either of us might have hoped, judging by the flush creeping up her throat.
There was no version of that ending well. Not with the strength coiled under my skin. Not with diamond sharp teeth that still ached if I skipped a feeding.
"Goodbye, Mira," I said gently.
Her eyes flicked up, shy and bright, and she dipped a small curtsy that didn't fit our surroundings in the slightest.
I donned my helmet with a practiced motion, and turned back to Rhenawedd—who had watched the entire exchange with a neutrality so stone-faced it was almost comedic.
What's got her mad now...
Without another word, I escorted her through the narrow back hall to the attached building where Mira had prepared a bath.
Steam rolled from the doorway in soft clouds, carrying the mild scent of herbs—rosemary, maybe chamomile—whatever passes for luxury in a place like Dregsdon.
The wooden floor creaked as Rhenawedd stepped inside. I paused at the threshold, resting a gauntleted hand against the frame.
"I'll be just outside," I told her.
She nodded once, quietly, and slipped in, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Then I settled myself beside the door, leaned against the wall, and listened to the muffled sounds of water, steam, and the faint sigh of someone finally—finally—allowed a moment of peace.
The crooked tower that stood near the center of town, turned out to be the Ealdormans home, it wasn't nearly as impressive up close as it had seemed from the road.
Up front, with the moon behind it, it looked almost ominous—a leaning silhouette with jagged stones and narrow windows like staring eyes. But standing at its base.
The thing was old, stubborn, and held together less by mortar and more by pure spite.
It hadn't been built as a home. It had started as a watchtower, centuries back, during some forgotten feud between two equally irrelevant noble families.
The ground it stood on was swampy, half-sunk even then, and the builders either didn't notice the gradual shift or simply didn't care.
So as the years passed, the tower settled crookedly into the earth—tilting a little more each spring thaw, like it was bowing in exhaustion.
When peace came and the land changed hands for the hundredth time, the tower was abandoned. The villagers swore it was haunted. Kids dared each other to climb it.
A fire gutted the top two floors. Some fool tried to use it as a grain silo for a few years before rats made a grand feast of the harvest.
Then, twenty years ago, an enterprising Ealdorman took one look at the leaning ruin and declared it "distinguished."
Which was a charitable way of saying it was the only stone structure in Dregsdon he could feasibly claim as his own.
Over time, the lower floors were reinforced, plastered over, furnished, and scrubbed until even the ghosts probably got tired and left. The upper floors, the ones that leaned the most, were sealed off entirely.
So his family lived in the straightest part of a crooked tower—like people determined to pretend their home wasn't a hair away from collapsing sideways into the street.
Rhenawedd had stared at the slant of the walls with a look that said she was already calculating escape routes if the thing decided tonight was its night to topple.
We were escorted into the dining room on the first floor—a space just large enough for the long table set squarely in the middle.
The spread laid out on it was generous, far more than two travelers could reasonably consume.
Bread still warm from the oven, smoked pork, broiled roots drizzled with butter, even a small clay dish of berry preserves that must've cost him a favor or two.
A clear attempt to impress.
We weren't alone either.
His wife, Helda, sat at the Ealdorman's right—a thin woman with sharp features and the permanently strained smile of someone used to smoothing over her husband's blunders.
She greeted us warmly, though her eyes flicked with a hint of calculation the moment she noted the quality of my armor.
Their son, Tomas, sat across from us. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Broad-shouldered from farm work, hair combed stiffly as if his mother had wetted it down moments before our arrival.
He alternated between stealing glances at Rhenawedd and pretending he was absolutely not stealing glances at Rhenawedd.
The subtlety was… nonexistent. He stared like a puppy that had imprinted on a wolf cub.
I had to actively smother any smirk threatening to surface. Rhenawedd, blissfully unaware or simply pretending not to care, reached for the bread with the bored poise of someone accustomed to far grander dining halls.
I folded my hands neatly on the table, straight-backed and silent, letting the awkward domestic tension settle around us like a warm, slightly musty blanket.
The crooked tower creaked faintly overhead. A reminder that even impressive hospitality couldn't hide the fact that the building, much like its master, was doing its very best to look more important—and more stable—than it truly was.
"You've a beautiful home and family." I said, interupting Wencel's tale of his families history. "And please excuse my rudeness but when Jorren said he would talk to you in regards to the sale of my horse I did not expect an invitation to your home."
Wencel gave a short, wheezing laugh—one of those laughs that tried very hard to sound modest and landed somewhere closer to relieved.
"Yes, well," he said, swirling the wine in his cup as though it were far finer than it actually was, "one doesn't get many chances to host visitors of your… station." He glanced meaningfully at my armor, then at Rhenawedd, then back at me, trying to pretend he hadn't done exactly that.
Across the table, his son Tomas nearly choked on a grape as Rhenawedd met his eyes. The poor lad flushed deep red and immediately pretended to be deeply invested in his spoon.
Wencel cleared his throat.
"Truth be told, ser, Jorren did mention the horse—fine animal, He tells me. Strong legs, good temper. He also told me of the losses you faced on your quest, you have my condolences" He offered solemnly.
I nodded my head to him at his words.
Wencel seeing this comtinues on "Regarding it's sale I've the coin for it, but-"
His wife—Helda—gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow, smiling warmly at me and Rhenawedd both.
"Wencel's just pleased for a chance at respectable company," she said. Her voice held that polite, soft-spoken edge of someone who'd spent decades smoothing her husband's rougher bits.
"The tower has room enough, and the table's already set. It'd be rude not to share especially considering the favour my husband would ask of you."
And there it is, the 'side quest'.
The crooked beam overhead creaked again, as if punctuating her words.
Wencel dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, the fabric already damp.
He glanced at his wife, then at Rhenawedd, then very pointedly at me—working himself up to the ask.
"Well, Ser, my Lady the truth of it is…" He cleared his throat. Twice. "Dregsdon's in a bit of a… situation. Not grave, no, no, nothing that would trouble someone of your calibre, just—just a matter of… ah…"
Helda sighed softly and patted his arm. "Wencel. Use your words."
He nodded hurriedly. "Right. The mill. Our mill."
He straightened, trying to look authoritative, though his chair complained under the sudden shift of weight.
"It's gone… dead," he said at last. "Stopped turning last week. The wheel froze up—no reason for it, the river's flowing fine. Millstone won't budge. And the miller—Henke—he fled in the night. Said something was in the rafters watching him grind. Said it whispered to him in a voice he couldn't place."
He shivered, pulling his doublet tighter around himself.
"Since then, no one dares go inside. Folk swear the place is cursed. Livelihoods depend on it—grain's already piling up, wheat's spoiling, and if the mill doesn't return to working order before the week is out, Dregsdon will be in real trouble."
Helda added quietly, "We've had to dig into the stores. That won't last."
Wencel leaned in, lowering his voice as though the rafters of the crooked tower might also be listening.
"I had hoped… with your skill, Ser Knight, you might see what plagues the place. Whether it's a rotfiend nesting beneath the floorboards, or a specter bound to the wheel, or—Melitele forbid—some curse upon the millstone itself. I can pay, of course. I would pay well. The business with the horse aside."
He swallowed, his eyes flicking between us, nervous and hopeful in equal measure.
"So… would you see to it? For Dregsdon's sake?"
"I am a Knight, not a Witcher," I replied after a moment, letting the words settle. "You're asking me to undertake a monster hunt when I've only just lost my comrades to forest beasts."
Wencel's hopeful expression faltered.
Sensing the negotiations slipping, Helda—who I was rapidly beginning to suspect ran more of this village than her husband ever did—interjected smoothly.
"But you are a knight of Toussaint, ser. Do you not face monsters there? Cyclopes, ogres, beasts of legend?"
"Those are tangible threats," I countered. "Creatures of flesh and bone. They can be struck down with steel, and we face them for honor—not coin."
Helda didn't miss a beat.
"And here, you have the chance to gain both. You could save an entire village's livelihood, and I assure you will recompense you for your trouble and we would not send you alone." Her eyes drifted meaningfully toward the guards.
Vott and his brother were trying very hard to look braver than they most likely felt. One swallowed. The other pretended not to.
"You would not be sent alone," she repeated, voice steady, reassuring. "Our men would go with you. You'd have steel at your side, Sir. And the thanks of every soul in Dregsdon."
Wencel bobbed his head vigorously, jowls quivering.
"Aye! Aye, that you would. Coin—proper coin—for a service rightly rendered. The mill feeds us all. Without it… well." He gestured vaguely, as if waving at invisible consequences.
"You'd be doing more than winning honor. You'd be saving the village."
The room quieted around us. Even their son stopped stealing glances at Rhenawedd long enough to listen.
Helda leaned forward slightly, a woman who knew precisely when to press.
"Sir Matthias… we know what happened in the forest. We know what you survived. If anyone can hope to face what's in that mill, it's you."
Rhenawedd's eyes flicked toward me—steady, unreadable, waiting to see which way I'd lean.
"Very well," I said. "But I will need a few things before I undertake this task."
Wencel straightened, eager. "Anything."
"I'll need a sword coated in silver."
Both he and Helda stiffened at once. Even the son paused mid–forkful of stew.
"I understand the cost," I continued, "but it's the only way I can harm a specter, if that is what haunts your mill. I'm willing to spend a quarter of what you'd pay me for the horse to cover the work. And I'll provide the blade to be plated."
Wencel still seemed reluctant.
"It's not just the coin, ser," he said gravely. "It's the scarcity. Silver's rare as hen's teeth around these parts. But…" He glanced toward his wife. "I suppose Jorren might have enough to coat at least one edge of your sword."
"Secondly," I continued, turning my back attention back to Wencel and not his wife, "I'll handle this on my own. There's no need to send Vott and Branik with me."
He blinked, taken aback. "Are… are you certain, ser? Don't let the look of them fool you, they're stout lads. More than willing to assist."
"I don't doubt their willingness," I said, keeping my tone even.
"But you asked for my help, and I'm giving it. I don't need extra blades at my back—especially not men unprepared for what might lie in that mill. I work better alone."
Helda's brows lifted slightly—surprised, perhaps impressed. She exchanged a brief glance with her husband before inclining her head.
"Very well, Sir Harlow," she said. "If you are certain, we will respect your judgment."
"I am," I replied, before shifting smoothly to my final request. "And lastly… I would like that as part of the reward."
Every head turned toward where I was pointing, the object resting in an open case near the far wall.
It was a violin, a proper one, The moment I'd walked into the dining hall, my eyes had been drawn to it the way a thirsty man notices water: instinctively, immediately, with a pull I couldn't quite ignore.
The wood was the first hint.
A deep, honeyed amber, the kind of color that only came from aged spruce and maple. Light from the sconces played across its surface, catching on the varnish.
Said varnish was not the thick, tacky lacquer of cheap makes, but a thin, hand-rubbed finish that allowed the grain to glow warmly beneath.
It looked almost wet, that subtle sheen master luthiers prized because it let the wood breathe and resonate freely.
The belly's grain lines were tight and even—straight as comb teeth, without the wandering knots or wide spacing that killed resonance.
The maple back shimmered with a perfect flame, the stripes rippling like water as the angle of light shifted. Even from here I could tell: this was a resonant backplate, carved with intention.
The bridge stood at a clean arch, properly trimmed, not too thick, feet fitted flush. The strings were newer than the rest of it—good strings. And the tailpiece… ebony, polished smooth, set with a single fine tuner on the E string, as proper.
The whole instrument had the quiet poise of something well-loved and well-maintained. No dust in the f-holes, no grime along the fingerboard, no collapsed soundpost. Someone cared for it deeply.
I could practically hear the potential of its voice—warm, round lows; singing upper register; the kind of violin that responded to a bow like it was answering a question you'd barely finished asking.
It was, without exaggeration, the finest crafted object in the room. And I had been aware of it—keenly—since the moment I entered.
"I would like that violin," I clarified, letting my hand fall back to the table. "In lieu of a cash reward."
Wencel's face tightened the moment the words left my mouth, the polite stiffness of a man trying very hard not to appear offended.
He cleared his throat, folded his hands over his belly, and offered a strained smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"A-ah… Ser Harlow, I fear that is the one thing I cannot part with."
Helda's hand moved to her lap, fingers curling slightly, her earlier warmth dimming into something more guarded.
"It was a gift," Wencel continued, voice taking on a softer, almost apologetic weight.
"From our daughter, our pride—Lara. She married into a merchant family in Vengerberg, well-to-do folk. Sent it to us her first winter away, gods bless her."
I had wondered where all their wealth was coming from...
He glanced at the violin the way a man might glance at a gravestone—fondness mixed with ache.
"She sent it for Helda, you see. My wife has always loved music. That instrument… it's the finest thing we own. A reminder of our girl, of her visit home each spring."
Helda's expression confirmed it: the violin wasn't just cherished.
It was her heart's keepsake.
Wencel shook his head firmly.
"I'd pay coin. I'd give food, labour, lodging—anything I can grant. But not that, Ser. Not even for you. Some things cannot be bought or bartered."
He squared his shoulders in the first display of true conviction I'd seen in him all night.
"I will not part with my daughter's gift."
I knew when to back down.
"Very well," I said, inclining my head, "then at the very least, I would like for you to put me in contact with your daughter. I would very much like to know from whom she procured this instrument."
Helda spoke up before Wencel could respond, her voice soft but curious.
"Do you play, Sir? The violin, I mean."
"Much to my detriment… religiously," I admitted. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, I've lost my own. Seeing yours… I confess, I lost myself. Forgive me."
Her eyes lit up at my answer, and the conversation blossomed, light and earnest. She spoke of her favorite sonatas, the maestros she admired most, the pieces she returned to over and over again. The words tumbled out in a rush, as though she were eager to share a private joy.
Tomas who had been quiet for most of the meal, sitting rigidly beside his father, back straight as a pike shaft.
When Rhenawedd commented on one of the sonnets, his head snapped up like he'd been waiting for an opening.
"I—ah—I've read The Iris Ballad," he blurted, just a bit too loudly. "All of it. Twice."
Rhenawedd blinked, politely. "Have you?"
"Yes," he said, and immediately ran out of factual knowledge. His mouth opened and closed—one, two, three times—like a fish reconsidering its life choices. "It's… very poetic."
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Rhenawedd tilted her head. "Most ballads are, Tomas."
He flushed crimson. "Right, yes, of course. What I meant was—well—the structure! The structure is very... poetic."
Tomas visibly deflated.
But, bless him, he rallied. "I've also taken up archery. I'm training every morning. Father says I'm improving quickly."
"That is commendable," Rhenawedd said, tone gentle but distant—the sort of polite distance nobles are trained to use when they don't want to encourage someone but don't wish to be cruel.
Tomas nodded so hard he almost dislocated something. "If—if you'd ever like to see the range, my lady, I could show—"
"—Elaine Ettariel is another I often come back to. Even though I'm not learned in Elder Speech, my lady, Lady Ilvane Stenger used to sing it to her daughter to lull her to sleep, I've loved it ever since." Helda went on, either oblivious to—or simply uninterested in—her son's clumsy attempts at flirting.
I nodded along where I could, trying not to let my ignorance show. I was a stranger in this world; the memories I carried of living in it weren't mine, and none of them held anything substantial beyond what was required for a nobleman, of the arts. I didn't know most of the sonnets she named.
Finally, she paused and looked at me expectantly. "And… your favourite minstrel?"
I cleared my throat, hesitated, and offered the safest excuse I could think of.
"My favourite minstrel would be… Julien Alfred Pankratz," I said, letting the name carry the weight of a memory I had never actually possessed. It was enough to keep the conversation flowing without exposing my lack of true knowledge.
"He has a way with words I often find myself jealous of," I continued, shifting my stance slightly. "Truth be told, I'm not much of a singer. But with a violin—" I exhaled, "—with enough diligence and practice, anyone can make great music. Not just those lucky few born with golden voices."
"But your voice seems so harmonious, ser," Wencel said, brows pinching in what looked like earnest puzzlement. "Surely you are being humble?"
The remark caught me off guard. My voice? Harmonious?
Oh right...the transformation had altered it. Smoothed the roughness. Warmed the timbre. I might… actually be able to carry a tune now.
Before I could dwell on it, Rhenawedd—who'd spent most of this dinner feigning interest in tableware—leaned forward, her eyes finally bright with something other than polite tolerance.
"You never told me you were a musician," she said, head tilted. "Was it your mother who taught you?"
Her question landed softly, but it tugged at a thread I would have preferred not pull in mixed company.
"No…" I began, exhaling slowly. "She tried to teach me when I was young, but I was more concerned with playing games than plucking strings. I only bothered to learn after her passing...whether as an apology or as a way to feel closer to her, I do not know. But I practiced every day until I was nearly as good as she was."
A faint smile touched my lips. "I'd decided I would pursue a life of music to honor her. But life has a way of dragging you from the path you thought was yours, of leaving dreams unfulfilled."
A somber silence settled over the table like a heavy cloth.
I cleared my throat. "My apologies for dampening the mood. To the matter at hand—it would be best if we call Jorren now to begin plating the sword, the sooner I can—"
"Would you like to play a song?" Helda asked gently.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
She looked to Wencel, who coughed into his fist, straightening awkwardly.
"On the fidd—" he corrected himself with a clearing throat, "—the violin. We would be honoured to hear a knight's song. It is… not a common occurrence."
Wencel's expectant smile, Helda's gentle encouragement, Rhenawedd's curious eyes—three gazes pinned me to my chair harder than any specter ever could.
I hesitated.
"I… don't think that would be appropriate," I began, lifting my hand in polite refusal. "It's been a long road, and I—"
But Helda's expression softened in a way that made turning her down feel like kicking a puppy.
"A single piece," she insisted. "For a mother far from her daughter. And for a knight far from whatever path he meant to walk."
She knew exactly what she was doing. Suddenly, refusing would be an insult wrapped in cowardice.
I sighed, stood, and crossed to the open case.
The violin felt warm even before my fingers touched it—like it breathed. The varnished maple shimmered in the firelight, and when I lifted it, the wood hummed faintly, as if remembering every song it had ever carried.
It was perfect.
Too perfect to be handled by hands as unyielding as mine.
Still, I raised it to my shoulder, careful not buff it on the chestplate.
My new voice had been smoother—Wencel was right about that—but my hands… my hands even as cold as they were, remembered. Movements practiced obsessively. Grief turned into discipline. Regret into music.
I drew the bow.
The first note rang out pure and clear, like a cold mountain spring. Even I blinked at it.
Rhenawedd's lips parted slightly.
The second note followed, then the third—soft, aching, a melody built on loss.
A mother's lullaby. A son's apology. A promise broken by time
This was the first piece I ever fought with.
The first piece that ever made me want to throw a violin against a wall.
The first piece that made me not give up
Back then I hadn't learned it to impress anyone, or because it was beautiful, or because it was difficult.
I learned it because it sounded like how I felt.
After my parents passed, the world had gone strange and hollow. Too quiet. Too sharp. Everything either hurt or felt distant.
Even with my communities support, my grief and regrets lingered, of promises not kept, of conversations that I had left unspoken.
To me at that time, the melody of this piece matched that
The steady, tired ache of missing something you can't get back.
So I played it. Over and over. Badly. Painfully.
My fingers had blistered. My bowing was uneven.
I couldn't keep the dynamics steady.
I had had no talent for it, not really. But it didn't matter.
It was the first time in my life discipline actually became something I wanted, not something forced on me.
And now, playing it again…
It feels strange.
Almost like revisiting an old room and finding the furniture smaller than I remember.
I am not overwhelmed by sorrow, not anymore.
I am not falling apart.
I am not transported back to childhood or drowning in grief.
What I feel is… recognition.
A kind of quiet, bittersweet gratitude toward the boy I was — the stubborn idiot who sat on the edge of his bed and practiced this piece until the sun came up, trying to wrestle his feelings into something he could hold in his hands.
The notes aren't perfect. In fear that my new found strength would break the instrument the instrument, I hold it too lightly. The bow wavers in a high passage.
But somehow that tenderness makes it better.
The song has never been about technical mastery for me.
It has always been about effort — the quiet vow that even if I couldn't change the past, that I couldn't keep my promises, I could at least make something from their echoes.
By the time I reach the final stretch, my chest feels warm rather than tight.
When I opened my eyes, the room felt smaller, warmer. Helda dabbed at her eye. Wencel looked as though he'd forgotten to breathe.
Even the silent Tomas looked as though he would stand up and applaud
Rhenawedd stared at me with something closer to quiet astonishment.
When the bow lowered, silence rushed in.
"I…" Wencel coughed, clearing his throat too sharply. "My word."
Helda managed a trembling smile. "I see why you wanted to know where Mira found it."
I carefully set the violin back into its case, closing the lid as though tucking a child into bed.
"It is a beautiful instrument," I said simply.
"It is," Helda whispered. "And tonight it was put to beautiful use."
Wencel straightened in his chair, returning to the matter at hand with a newfound respect.
"Ser Harlow… your terms are accepted. Jorren will begin the silvering at once. And if you change your mind regarding needing aid—consider our resources at your disposal."
I dipped my head.
"Then I will see your mill restored to safety."
Helda placed a gentle hand on her husband's arm. "It grows late. And you've had a long journey, both of you. Come—let us show you to your rooms. Rest will serve you better than any feast."
Rhenawedd accepted before I could. She was polite, poised—even a little weary. "Thank you. It would be appreciated."
We were escorted up the stairs by Vott, who did his best not to stare. The tower creaked under every step, old timbers settling like arthritic bones. The corridor was narrow, lit by wall sconces that spat faintly where the oil failed to settle.
Two rooms had been prepared—side by side.
They'd placed mine beside hers.
Vott opened her door first. "My lady," he muttered, stepping aside.
She paused in the threshold, glancing back at me. Something unreadable flickered across her face.
"Goodnight Matthias."
"Goodnight," I replied, inclining my head.
She disappeared inside. The door shut softly behind her.
Vott led me the last few steps to my own chamber.
It was simple—a bed, a washbasin, a small chest, and a window overlooking the dark sweep of the crooked town.
The moons light bled faintly into the night through gaps in the shutters, and the distant murmur of the river filled the silence.
"Sleep well, Sire," Vott said, before retreating down the hall.
I removed my gauntlets one finger at a time, set down my gear piece by piece, unbuckled the last clasp of my breastplate.
The bed creaked as I lay back. The straw-stuffed mattress wasn't comfortable, but it held me all the same.
I reached into my pouch and closed my hand around O'Dimm's ring.
I pressed it to my chest, palm cupped over it like it might slip away otherwise.
The ceiling above me was uneven, patched and crooked—much like the tower itself. My eyes traced the imperfections while my thoughts drifted, uninvited, back to a place that wasn't here.
A time when none of this existed. When monsters were stories. When I was still human.
Home.
The word felt foreign now.
I listened to the town breathing—old wood, settling stone, distant wind whistling past the crooked eaves.
I kept an ear out for danger.
And as I would for the rest of my nights, I stayed awake.