Chapter 44 Feel Something Genuine
(and Immediately Regret It)
Kazimir
The Black Eagle squatted in Kheldvar’s merchant quarter like a stubborn old soldier refusing to retire.
Three stories of weathered stone and timber, windows that glowed amber against the evening dark, and a sign depicting an eagle so faded it looked more like an angry chicken.
But the moment Thorne and I approached the entrance, I felt a peculiar tingle of old magic—the kind that predated most kingdoms and gave exactly zero fucks about Dark Lords or their ambitions.
“This is the place?” Thorne asked, eyeing the door.
“According to the list.” I consulted Vex’s notes again. “Istvan. Proprietor. Heroic bloodline through his great-grandfather.” I paused, rereading Sebastian’s addition. “Also makes exceptional goulash and has ‘a laugh like summer thunder,’ whatever that means.”
“Are we taking him now?”
“After a drink.” Arabella wouldn’t be at Skyspire tonight anyway. She was probably off charming Meridian Isle with her aggressive compassion.
I pushed open the door, and the scent hit me immediately—ale and pipe smoke, yes, but also hearth fire and something indefinable that made me think of my mother’s kitchen before everything went to shit. Which was to say, I had no actual memory of such a thing, but the smell convinced me I should.
The interior was exactly what you’d expect from a establishment frequented by mercenaries, smugglers, and the occasional assassin between contracts.
Rough wooden tables, benches scarred by knife fights and spilled drinks, walls decorated with weapons that had definitely seen use.
But despite the rough clientele—I spotted at least three I recognized from wanted posters and a demon who was supposed to be banned from this plane—everyone unconsciously wiped their feet at the threshold.
Including me.
I paused, staring down at my boots on the worn mat, irritated that I’d done it without thinking.
Hearth-spirit magic. Subtle, insidious, and apparently very concerned with muddy boots.
I nodded toward a corner table that gave us clear sight lines to both exits and the bar.
The man behind the bar had to be Istvan.
Broad-shouldered, with the kind of weathered face that suggested he’d seen violence and chosen hospitality instead.
Salt-and-pepper hair pulled back, and hands that moved with the efficiency of someone who’d poured ten thousand ales and could probably do it blindfolded.
He caught my eye, nodded once in acknowledgment, and went back to serving a table of mercenaries who were arguing about the best way to poison a rival.
A bard occupied a small cleared space near the fireplace—a woman in her forties with laugh lines around her eyes and a lute in her hands. Her voice carried through the tavern without effort, something about a sailor and a selkie and a bargain that ended poorly for everyone involved.
“Two ales,” I told the serving girl who appeared at our elbow. She was maybe sixteen, with the kind of sharp awareness that suggested she’d grown up in places where being oblivious got you killed.
“Dark or light?”
“Dark. And whatever your kitchen’s serving tonight.”
She nodded and disappeared, weaving through the crowd.
I settled back, letting my shoulders relax for the first time since leaving Skyspire. The building’s magic hummed around us—not threatening, just present. Watchful. Like having a very polite but very large dog observe you from across the room.
“Kazimir Blackrose.” The voice came from my left, amused and wary in equal measure. “Didn’t expect to see you in my territory.”
Keld Marton slid into view, all wiry muscle and calculated menace.
Valmont’s minor villain. We’d met briefly years ago when I’d done business in Kheldvar.
I left his operations alone; he didn’t interfere with my supply lines.
He’d been smart enough not to challenge my presence then, and apparently smart enough to recognize me now despite my hood and the distance of many years.
“Keld.” I nodded to the empty chair. “Just passing through. No territorial ambitions tonight.”
“That’s what you said about Azroth.” But he was smiling as he said it, the kind of smile that suggested he knew exactly how dangerous this conversation was and found it entertaining.
“Mind if I join you? The bard’s ignoring my attempts at flirtation, and watching her pretend not to notice is getting depressing. ”
“By all means.” I gestured to the chair. “Though I’d think a man of your reputation could manage better than longing glances.”
“You’d think.” He settled in, flagging down the serving girl for his own ale. “But Elowen’s got standards. Apparently, ‘local crime lord’ doesn’t meet them.”
After his drink arrived, Keld studied me over his mug. “Speaking of standards going to shit—you hear about all the chaos in Solandris? Even Valmont’s starting to see problems. Had a merchant’s preservation charms fail mid-transport last week. Lost an entire shipment of goods.”
“Solandris has always had unstable magic,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Too much power concentrated in one place.”
“Maybe.” Keld’s eyes narrowed slightly. “But this feels different. Like something’s eating at the foundations.” He paused. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“If I was causing magical chaos in Solandris, would I be sitting in a Valmont tavern drinking ale?”
Thorne grunted into his mug—a sound that could have meant anything.
Keld let it drop, but I could see him filing the information away.
The bard—Elowen—finished her song about the selkie to applause and a few coins tossed into her hat. She took a long drink from a mug beside her instrument, then straightened, a gleam entering her eye that made several regulars groan.
“Right, then!” Her voice carried authority despite its warmth. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper gift night. What do you say, loves? Shall we honor the house? It’s been generous—warmth, good ale, better company. Time to give something back.”
The groans intensified, mixed with a few enthusiastic cheers. I glanced at Keld, who was suddenly very interested in his ale.
“Gift night?” Thorne asked.
“You’ll see.” Keld’s smile had gone slightly pained. “And you’ll participate, whether you want to or not. The building gets cranky otherwise.”
Elowen launched into a traditional opening verse, something in Old Valmontian that I only half understood. But the magic responded immediately—settling over the room like an expectant presence, warm and insistent and oddly playful.
The first volunteer was a merchant with more enthusiasm than talent, who murdered a sea shanty so thoroughly it should have been considered a crime. Elowen encouraged him anyway, leading the room in applause that was only slightly mocking.
A mercenary followed with a joke so filthy it made even Thorne blush. Then a smuggler recited poetry that was surprisingly good, and a pickpocket demonstrated a card trick that ended with Istvan’s pocket watch somehow appearing in the fireplace.
“Your turn,” Elowen called to a nervous-looking clerk. “Come on, love. The house won’t bite.”
“Much,” someone added, to general laughter.
Thorne was on his fourth ale—not drunk, he never got truly drunk, but definitely relaxed. When Elowen’s gaze swept past our table, he stood before I could stop him.
“Thorne—” I started.
“I have something.” He moved to the performance space with the deliberate care of a man who knew exactly how steady he was and wanted everyone else to know it too.
Keld leaned over. “Your lieutenant about to embarrass himself?”
“Probably.” Though I’d never actually heard Thorne sing. For all I knew, he sounded like a dying cat.
Thorne cleared his throat, and the room quieted. When he spoke, his voice rumbled as usual, roughened by years of shouting orders across battlefields.
“This is a soldier’s song,” he said simply.
Then he began to sing. The ballad was old, something about a soldier’s last night before battle. Simple words, but delivered with genuine emotion that caught me completely off guard.
“The fire burns low, the wine runs red,
Tomorrow’s dawn brings steel and dread,
But tonight we’re warm, tonight we’re whole,
Tomorrow can’t touch a soldier’s soul.”
The tavern went absolutely silent. Even the demon stopped mid-drink.
Thorne continued through three more verses, each one building on the last. His deep voice transformed the simple ballad into something that made my heart ache. I’d heard this song before, years ago, sung by men who knew they were marching to their deaths. Thorne sang it like he’d been one of them.
When he finished, the silence stretched for three heartbeats before the room erupted. Elowen was beaming, her eyes bright with appreciation. Keld looked like someone had just stolen his favorite knife.
“Well,” Elowen said as Thorne returned to our table, “I think we have a new favorite.”
Thorne sat down, looking pleased with himself in that subtle way that suggested he knew exactly what he’d done. “The bard seems charmed.” He winked at her, and she smiled.
“Bastard,” Keld muttered into his ale.
I was about to comment when I felt the building’s attention turning toward me like a massive, invisible eye.
My ale suddenly tasted flat. My chair developed an uncomfortable ridge that definitely hadn’t been there before.
And despite sitting close to the fire, the warmth seemed to stop just short of reaching me.
Keld followed my gaze toward Elowen, who was looking at me expectantly. “You’re next.”
“I don’t perform.”
“The building doesn’t care.” He gestured around the room, where patrons were starting to glance my way without quite meaning to.
“Istvan’s grandmother was a proper hearth-spirit.
Wouldn’t let anyone leave her table until they’d eaten thirds and shared a story.
The building has the same attitude about participation. ”