The inn smelled like old ale and damp wool — the comforting kind of unpleasant that meant people had been lingering here longer than they should.
The room was busy, but not loud. Travelers clustered near the hearth, boots kicked out, voices overlapping just enough to blur into background noise. A pair of locals argued quietly over dice at a corner table. Someone laughed too hard at something that hadn't been funny.
Imoen drifted ahead of me without thinking about it, already at ease. She leaned against the bar, elbows back, eyes moving — not scanning for danger, just absorbing the room like she always did.
I stopped a few steps inside.
Jaheira and Khalid had taken positions near the far wall, not seated, not standing openly together. They didn't look like they were watching anyone in particular.
They were watching the man with the staff.
He hadn't noticed. Or had and didn't care. He stood near a table littered with empty mugs, staff resting loosely in one hand, murmuring something to himself with quiet delight as if the inn were whispering secrets only he could hear.
Jaheira's gaze followed him with calm, predatory patience. She leaned just enough to murmur something under her breath toward Khalid, her lips barely moving.
Khalid inclined his head a fraction in response. His hair was cut short and practical, dull brown and already losing its shape. His shield hung easy at his side, but his hand stayed near it, fingers flexing each time the man laughed too sharply.
Containment, not confrontation.
That was when I felt eyes on me.
I glanced toward the center of the room and immediately wished I hadn't.
A man sat alone at a table that had seen better decades. His mug was empty, tipped on its side like it had given up. His posture sagged forward, elbows planted wide, shoulders slumped under the weight of someone who had been drinking since before it was a good idea.
He squinted at me, eyes bloodshot but focused — the dangerous kind of drunk, the one that picked a target and stayed with it.
"Well I'll be damned," he said, voice already louder than it needed to be. "Look at that."
A few heads turned.
I didn't move.
He pushed himself upright, chair legs scraping in complaint. He wobbled once, caught himself on the table, then grinned like this was part of the act.
"Got yourself a lute, don't you?" he said, jabbing a finger vaguely in my direction. "Saw it when you came in."
There was something sharp under the words. Not curiosity. Not humor. Just disdain — the kind that didn't need a reason anymore.
I felt heat crawl up my neck.
"I—" I started.
"Oh no," he said, waving the word away. "Don't 'I' me. A bard walks into an inn, that's an invitation."
A ripple of low chuckles moved through the room. Nothing cruel yet. Expectant.
Imoen turned, brow lifting. She caught my expression and frowned slightly.
The man took a step closer.
"Play something," he said. Not a request. "Anything. I got coin if it's good."
He slapped a few coppers onto the table. They didn't look generous.
From behind the bar, the barkeep glanced up. "Marl," he said, not sharp, not loud. Just tired. "Ease up."
Marl ignored him.
"I'm not—" I tried again.
"A song!" Marl barked, louder now. "That's what you lot do, ain't it? Sing about heroes. Make people forget their miserable lives for a minute."
Something twisted in his face when he said it.
Heroes.
Silence stretched.
I could feel it then — that familiar tightening. Not fear exactly. Pressure. The sense that something was supposed to happen next, and I didn't know how to make it happen.
I reached for words.
They didn't come.
The truth:
I had picked bard because it sounded safe.
Because it promised flexibility.
Because it didn't require me to be good at any one thing.
I knew how bard worked.
I did not know how to perform.
"I don't have anything ready," I said finally.
Marl stared at me.
Then laughed.
Not cruelly. Not yet.
"Don't have anything ready," he repeated, savoring it. "That's a new one."
A couple people shifted in their seats.
"Bard with no song," he went on. "That's like a sword with no edge."
Heat crept higher, sharp and humiliating.
Beyond him, near the stair rail, a heavyset man in a colorful cloak leaned back against the wall, laughing at something a woman beside him had said. The fabric caught the firelight at every angle. He adjusted it once, proudly, as if aware it drew the eye.
My gaze snagged on it longer than it should have.
There was something about the cloak — not threatening, not strange — just… inviting, in a way I couldn't explain yet. Like standing a step closer would make things easier.
I caught myself and looked back at Marl.
The spell, whatever it was, broke.
When the man's attention drifted briefly toward the raised voices, it held only mild curiosity before he turned back to his conversation.
No judgment.
No weight.
"I can just—" I said, hating how thin my voice sounded. "If you want a tune later—"
"Later?" Marl scoffed. "You think later makes it better?"
The inn closed in.
Imoen stepped forward half a pace.
"He said no," Imoen said.
Marl turned on her with bleary irritation. "Didn't ask you, girl."
Before I could react, a chair scraped softly behind us.
Khalid.
He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't drawn attention.
He had simply stood.
"That's quite enough," Khalid said, quiet but steady. "He owes you nothing."
Marl looked between us, eyes flicking to Khalid's shield, then — just briefly — to Jaheira, who met his gaze without expression.
The moment broke.
Marl snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "Fine. Waste of space anyway."
He turned back to his table, muttering.
Conversation resumed in fragments. Someone laughed too loudly again, deliberately.
Imoen exhaled and leaned closer to me.
"You okay?" she murmured.
I nodded.
I wasn't sure it was true.
We took an empty table near the wall. I kept my eyes on the wood longer than necessary.
The tabletop was scarred with old knife marks and rings from spilled ale, layered so thick with history it felt like touching something already used up. Safer than meeting anyone's gaze. Safer than thinking about what I hadn't done.
A mug landed on the table near my elbow.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
"Sorry," the barmaid said. Then she hesitated, glancing back toward Marl's table.
"He gets like that," she said quietly. "Bards set him off."
I swallowed. "Why?"
She wiped her hands on her apron.
"His boy used to sit right where you were standing," she said. "Years back. A traveler passed through. Sang about roads and glory, how small towns were cages.
Her mouth tightened.
"Boy packed a bag the next morning. Went chasing it."
She nodded toward Marl.
"They brought him back in pieces."
The words settled between us.
"I didn't—" I started.
"I know," she said. "Doesn't matter. Songs don't ask permission before they stick."
She moved away, leaving the mug behind.
I stared into it, steam curling up and disappearing.
So that was the other half of it.
Out there, failure got you killed.
In here—
Sometimes success did.
A chair scraped softly behind me.
I turned.
Montaron was already halfway into the seat, boots hooked around the rung, eyes flicking once toward Marl's table before settling on me.
"So," he said mildly. "Help me out here."
I didn't answer.
"If ye can't sing," he went on, "and ye can't fight—"
He paused, just long enough to be irritating.
"What are ye good at?"
Imoen made a noise like she was about to object.
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Montaron watched me with faint interest. Not cruel. Not kind. Just waiting.
"That's not an insult," he added. "That's inventory."
The inn went on around us.
I sat there, hands flat on the table, with no answer ready.
As Montaron shifted back out of the chair, my eyes drifted — unfocused — to the wall beside the bar.
Someone had tacked a flyer there, half-crooked, corners curling from spilled drink and heat.
Neatly written. Careful hand.
Garrick.
Performer. Actor. Bard.
Below it, in smaller script:
Music. Recitation. Dramatic works.
Private instruction by arrangement.
The name tugged at something half-remembered.
Not important. Not required.
I stared at the paper longer than I meant to.
Coin for lessons.
Time spent admitting I didn't know what I was doing.
The quiet humiliation of asking.
Montaron's question lingered between my ears.
What are ye good at?
I looked away from the flyer.
Not yet.
But I didn't forget where it was.
Choosing a role didn't make it true.
Sooner or later, I was going to have to earn whatever I claimed to be.