The walk back to town was thankfully uneventful. Neither of us had the stomach for another surprise. We didn’t talk much—exhaustion had eaten the words before they could form.

  By the time Ravencrest came into view, the city was asleep. The gate guards barely lifted their lanterns before waving us through. We stumbled back to the inn like drunks, climbed the stairs, and collapsed into bed. The problem of failure could wait until morning. Right then, all that mattered was sleep.

  I woke with the sun already high, pale winter light slanting through the window. Illara was still out cold beside me, her face slack with the kind of sleep that only comes after pain. I eased out of bed, dressed quietly, and slipped downstairs before I could wake her. We needed a plan, and walking usually helped me think.

  Outside, Ravencrest was properly awake. The air was sharp and cold, smelling of woodsmoke and damp stone. Chimneys crowded the skyline, and their smoke had settled into a low grey haze that made every breath taste faintly bitter.

  The streets were busy now — not the sleepy trickle of dawn, but the full midday press. Shopfronts stood open, vendors called over one another, and the market lanes were thick with people bargaining, eating, and hurrying under armfuls of goods. I wandered through it without aim, letting the noise wash over me while I tried to think.

  That was when I saw him.

  Norman looked almost unchanged from twenty years ago. The hair was greyer, the back a bit more stooped, but the face was the same sharp wedge of curiosity and mischief. He stood at the potato stall, leaning on a staff, haggling like it was a duel.

  “Surely an old man earns a discount,” he said.

  “No, sir,” the seller replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Two copper barely leaves me a profit.”

  I stepped up beside them and placed two copper on the counter—some of my last. I couldn’t let this chance drift past.

  “I’ll cover his,” I said. “Make him one.”

  Norman turned slowly, studying me as if I were a puzzle he’d forgotten he once enjoyed.

  “Do I know you? If we’ve met, it’s slipped my mind.”

  “Not personally,” I said. “But I’ve heard of you. You devised the new method of scroll-making that made them affordable.”

  It was a guess—but the prices I’d seen suggested someone clever had changed the craft.

  Norman blinked. Then a dry laugh escaped him.

  “And how did you know that? I was starting to think Vorlis had convinced the world it was his work.”

  “I’ve met Vorlis. He doesn’t strike me as the sort who could manage research like that.” I shrugged, letting the lie sit easy. “So I figured it had to be you.”

  His eyes narrowed in amused suspicion.

  “A flattering instinct.” He accepted the potato as the seller handed it over, then took a slow bite, chewing as if considering whether I was worth the trouble.

  “I’m surprised to meet one of your kind aboveground,” he said at last. “Most folk would call you an elf, but you’re not. Nhalyri don’t tend to linger under open sky. Should Ravencrest be worried about something?”

  “Not from me,” I said. “I’m an outcast. If my people find me, they’ll kill me. I’m keeping far away.”

  Interest brightened behind his eyes.

  “How fascinating. I’d love to speak with you about your culture and upbringing. Everything I’ve read was written by outsiders—usually biased ones.”

  I didn’t let myself smile too widely, but relief loosened something in my chest.

  “Then you’ll get your chance,” I said. “I’m stuck on a job. We took a contract to clear a kobold warren outside the city. They’re not strong, but they’re clever. Traps, ambushes, murder holes—the whole burrow fights you. We barely crawled out alive.”

  His chewing slowed.

  “I need magic with weight behind it to break their advantage. If you come with us, I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Nhalyri society on the way there. And on the way back.”

  Norman leaned more heavily on his cane, his gaze drifting somewhere past me. For a moment I wondered if I had pushed too hard.

  After a long pause, he sighed. “I’m not sure I can, child. My legs aren’t what they once were.”

  I could not afford to lose him.

  “Would it help to know I’m travelling with Illara, from Holver?” I said quickly.

  That did it.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “How do you know her?” he asked, the softness gone, suspicion snapping into place.

  “I helped rescue her from bandits,” I said. “After that, we decided to travel together. She mentioned you were something of a grandfather to her.”

  Norman’s shoulders eased. The guarded look faded, replaced by something quieter.

  “How is Illara?” he asked. “It has been some years since I last visited. I trust she is doing well.”

  I nodded. “As well as can be expected of a novice trying her hand at adventuring.”

  A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “So she chose that path after all. I always thought it dangerous, but I am glad she has the courage to try. Her mother never had that chance.”

  He fell silent again, lost in memory.

  “So,” I said gently, pressing while the door was still open, “will you come with me? At least to see Illara.”

  Norman exhaled, slow and measured, then nodded once.

  “Very well. Show me the way.”

  He walked with a limp now, leaning heavily on his staff. But he walked.

  Back at the inn, I led him upstairs. I did not bother knocking. Illara was already awake, kneeling beside the bed, hands folded in prayer.

  She turned as we entered, relief washing over her face.

  “You’re back. I was worried.”

  Then she saw Norman.

  “Norman,” she said softly. “It has been too long.”

  He raised a hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you again, Illara. You look well.”

  Her smile faltered. “After Tabatha died, you visited far too infrequently.”

  Something in Norman’s expression softened, a gentleness I had not expected.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost myself in my research.”

  “Are you able to help us with our mission?” I asked.

  For a moment he said nothing. Then something in him gave way, not with reluctance, but with decision.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. Give me the rest of today to prepare. I’ll meet you at the gate tomorrow morning.” He lifted a finger. “But I want a half share.”

  “Accepted,” I said at once. There was no sense pretending we had room to bargain.

  “Good.” He inclined his head to Illara, then turned towards the door. “Until morning.”

  When he had gone, Illara let out a breath she had clearly been holding.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “With him, we might actually stand a chance.”

  “Ok,” Illara said as we stepped into the grey afternoon, rubbing her hands for warmth. “I’m hungry. And I’m guessing we don’t have much coin left?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “Spent nearly the last of it trying to recruit Norman.”

  She gave me a look that was half disbelief, half resignation. “Then we eat the way we know how. You sing for lunch. Somewhere else this time.”

  I arched a brow. “Only if you join in.”

  Illara went a shade paler. “Me?”

  I smirked. “I’ve heard you sing in the fields. You’ve got a lovely voice. It’s about time someone besides the crows heard it.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again, exhaling through her nose like she was bracing for a cold river.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “But I pick the song.”

  “Deal.”

  She hummed a tune under her breath as we walked — simple, lilting, the sort of melody that knew its way around a hearth. By the time she finished the first line, I had the shape of it in my head.

  “I think I’ve got it,” I said.

  We left the inn behind and followed the busier streets until we found a tavern that sounded alive: laughter spilling out the doorway, mugs clattering, a warm fug of smoke and meat floating into the cold air.

  As we stepped inside, a sharp laugh cracked behind us. Illara jolted, turning so fast her cloak swung wide.

  I caught her shoulder before she could drift backward. “Easy,” I murmured. “We’re safe.”

  She nodded once, but her jaw stayed tight.

  We crossed to the bar. The tavern keeper was a broad man with a short black beard and a fighter’s scar running pale along his forearm. He looked us over like he’d seen a hundred hopeful performers walk in on empty stomachs.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Actually,” I said, letting my tone tilt playful, harmless, “we were hoping to sing for our lunch.”

  He sighed like this was an old conversation he was tired of having. “If you bring in enough coin to cover your tab, you eat. If you don’t, you walk out hungry.”

  “It’s a deal.” I gave him my best easy smile.

  A bard with a lute sat resting near the little wooden stage, fingers idling on the strings. We approached.

  “Would you play a tune for us?” Illara asked. Her voice was steady now — not loud, but sure. “We’ll sing over it.”

  “That depends on the tune.”

  Illara hummed it. The bard’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Got it,” he said. “Common one. I’ll give you a few bars, then you come in.”

  He struck up the melody. The tavern barely noticed at first — conversation rolled on, chairs scraped, someone shouted for another round.

  We began softly. The first verse slipped into the noise like a thread in a river. But the tables closest to us started to listen, heads turning, voices thinning.

  By the second verse the room had quieted enough for the words to carry.

  By the third, it had them.

  When the chorus came, the tavern joined in as if they’d always known it. Not perfectly, not politely — but with the kind of loud, wholehearted joy you can’t fake.

  When we finished there was a beat of silence, then applause burst out across the room.

  “Encore!” someone shouted.

  “Encore!” others echoed, stomping their boots.

  Illara glanced at me. Her eyes were bright now in a way they hadn’t been since the cave — startled, a little disbelieving, and proud.

  We obliged.

  The encore was bigger, rougher, and somehow warmer. Half the tavern sang the chorus; a few brave souls even tried the verses. By the end the whole place was laughing and clapping in time.

  We stepped down to a string of friendly pats on the back and raised mugs.

  The tavern keeper gave a grudging nod as we reached the bar. “All right. You’ve earned your lunch.”

  He set down two plates piled with mutton and potato mash, steam curling up into our faces.

  After iron rations and cold fear, it tasted like a feast.

  Tempo: easy 4/4, swingy.

  Drisnil leads the low line, Illara takes the bright harmony.

  Verse 1 — Drisnil

  We came in soaked from the roadside rain,

  Boots full of mud and a pocket of pain,

  Bought our supper with blood on the track—

  Tell me, friend, who’s to blame for that?

  Verse 1 — Illara

  Not the road, not the night, not the cold iron sky,

  Not the wolves that watch when the kind folk pass by,

  Blame the teeth in the dark and the hands that take—

  But we’re still here breathing, for mercy’s sake.

  Chorus — together (room can join)

  So pour it high, pour it deep,

  For the wakes we don’t get time to keep.

  We bend, we break, we crawl, we stand—

  Still walking on, still hand in hand.

  Ash and ale, and a stubborn song,

  If we’re not dead yet, we’re not done.

  Verse 2 — Illara

  I’ve seen fear wear a thousand faces,

  In alleys, in caves, in holy places,

  But the worst is the quiet that comes after—

  When your heart remembers before your laughter.

  Verse 2 — Drisnil

  And I’ve seen traps that burn without flame,

  Men who rise to forget their shame,

  But I learned this truth with a scar or two—

  The world doesn’t soften, so we do.

  Chorus — together

  So pour it high, pour it deep,

  For the wakes we don’t get time to keep.

  We bend, we break, we crawl, we stand—

  Still walking on, still hand in hand.

  Ash and ale, and a stubborn song,

  If we’re not dead yet, we’re not done.

  Bridge — Drisnil (quiet), Illara (over/echo)

  Someday the road will take its due…

  Illara:

  Someday we’ll find the dawn again.

  Drisnil:

  But tonight there’s warmth, and you…

  Illara:

  And hands that hold when the world won’t mend.

  Final Chorus — louder, faster

  So pour it high, pour it deep,

  For the wakes we don’t get time to keep.

  We bend, we break, we crawl, we stand—

  Still walking on, still hand in hand.

  Ash and ale, and a stubborn song,

  If we’re not dead yet—

  (room shouts) WE’RE NOT DONE!