The tavern was full.
Not just with the stranded travelers—though they were still there, growing increasingly restless despite Thalia’s assurances—but with locals who’d braved the strange forest to reach the Lodge. Word had spread, as word always did in the mountains, that something was happening at the Veilwalker’s Lodge.
Something important.
They came seeking sanctuary. Seeking answers. Seeking the comfort of familiar walls and warm fires in a world that was growing increasingly unfamiliar.
Marra moved between tables with practiced efficiency, serving stew and bread and Harl’s latest brew—a dark ale that tasted of autumn and smoke and something faintly magical. She’d left the bow upstairs, hidden in her room, but she could still feel its weight. Its presence. The knowledge of what it meant.
What she meant.
Warden’s daughter.
Keeper of the Guardian’s weapon.
Protector of something she was only beginning to understand.
“You alright, lass?” Harl asked as she passed the bar.
Marra managed a smile. “Just tired.”
“Liar.” But Harl’s expression was gentle. “But I’ll let it pass. For now.”
Across the room, Belvik sat in his usual corner, tuning his lute with fingers that trembled slightly. He’d been quiet all day—withdrawn in a way that wasn’t like him. The events in the shrine had shaken something loose in him, and Marra could see the fear in his eyes every time someone looked his way.
The Herald.
That’s what they were calling him now.
The one who would call the Guardian home.
It was a lot of weight for a bard who’d just wanted to sing love songs and make people smile.
Thalia caught Marra’s eye from across the room and nodded toward Belvik. Check on him, her expression said.
Marra finished delivering her tray of drinks and made her way to Belvik’s corner, sliding into the seat across from him.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Belvik looked up, startled. “Hey.”
“You don’t have to perform tonight if you don’t want to. People will understand.”
“Will they?” Belvik’s laugh was bitter. “They came here expecting music. Expecting normalcy. If I don’t sing—”
