Chapter 44: A Bard’s Path of Stars and Shadows

The stars were vivid against the velvet sky, shimmering like scattered diamonds. The flickering glow of the hearth painted Dorian's face in soft, warm hues as he turned the spit slowly, roasting the single rabbit he’d managed to catch. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of just how unprepared he was for the harsh realities of wandering alone.

“I knew it’d be hard,” he murmured, his gaze lifting to the sky. “But I didn’t know it’d be this hard.”

The wind sighed gently through the clearing as if commiserating. Dorian’s eyes wandered to his journal, lying open beside him. Scrawled in his neat handwriting were the stories, songs, and encounters he’d collected so far. Tales from Svalen’s Hold. Notes about Borgad Ironstave and Lienne the herbalist. The song he'd performed for the Twelve Gods' paladin.

As he traced the inked words with his fingers, the weight on his chest seemed to lighten.

“Well, I can’t stop now,” he said with renewed resolve. "If nothing else, I'll eat well tonight."

Using the spice pouch one of his neighbors had given him before his departure, he seasoned the rabbit to perfection. The scent was heavenly, and when he finally took a bite, he let out an involuntary sigh of delight.

“Better than I expected,” he mused, savoring the tender meat.

…

After finishing his meal, Dorian brushed off his lute and began his nightly ritual. Sitting near the fire, he strummed a few chords, weaving in his wind magic to enhance the melody.

Tonight, however, he was feeling ambitious. He rested his hand over the strings and whispered an incantation, coaxing tiny sparks of electricity to dance across the instrument. The lute hummed softly, its strings sparking faintly as he strummed again.

The music that emerged was sharper, brighter, tinged with crackling energy that mirrored the spark within his pendant.

Dorian grinned. “It’s almost there,” he said, tweaking his lyrics and timing to sync with the electrified tones.

If anyone had passed through the clearing that night, they would’ve seen a striking sight: a young bard standing before a glowing hearth, his lute lit with sparks and his voice rising to fill the night. But there was no one to witness his private performance, save for the silent stars above.

…

The dawn sunlight filtered through the trees, rousing Dorian from his slumber. Feeling groggy, he sat up and grumbled, “One day, I’ll wake up without the aches.”

He touched his chest, sending a small jolt of lightning magic coursing through his body. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to jolt him fully awake.

Heading to a nearby stream, Dorian used his meager water magic to wash his face, rinse his clothes, and clean the grime of travel from his skin. It wasn’t anything impressive, but it sufficed for his daily needs. Using wind magic, he dried off quickly and donned his gear.

His morning felt promising, and as the sun climbed higher, his mood lightened further when he crossed paths with a traveling merchant on the road to Svalen’s Hold.

“You’re a bard, aren’t you?” the merchant asked, his pack laden with goods.

“How could you tell?” Dorian replied with mock incredulity.

“Lute on your back, hair like fire... you look like you’re born for the stage,” the merchant joked.

They walked together for a while, bantering about their travels. Dorian learned that the merchant had been selling wares in the north for years and occasionally passed through Svalen to resupply. “Good place for business,” the merchant remarked.

After bidding the man farewell, Dorian continued down the road. By midday, he stumbled upon a quiet village.

At first glance, the village seemed normal enough—chickens wandered freely, smoke drifted from chimneys, and the faint clatter of tools echoed in the air. But as soon as Dorian stepped within its boundaries, his pendant turned icy cold, sending a shiver down his spine.

Frowning, Dorian tested it, stepping outside the village’s limits to find the pendant returning to its normal warmth. He furrowed his brows. “Why don’t you want me here?” he murmured, clutching the pendant tightly.

Ignoring his unease, Dorian resolved to move through quickly, stopping only to purchase some fresh herbs and seasonings. Yet as he interacted with the villagers, he couldn’t shake the sense of unease.

The people were polite, but distant. Their faces were sullen, their eyes carrying a heaviness that suggested recent hardship.

“Excuse me,” Dorian said to a vendor selling vegetables. “What’s the name of this village?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “We call it home. That’s all that matters.”

Dorian blinked at the cryptic response. “What happened here? The people seem...”

“We don’t talk about it,” the vendor cut in, his tone firm. “You’ve got your business, bard. Leave us to ours.”

Reluctantly, Dorian left the village, his bag slightly heavier with goods but his heart weighed down by curiosity and unease. As he departed, he bought a few apples from an elderly woman, biting into one as he walked. The fruit was surprisingly crisp and sweet, a sharp contrast to the gloom he’d just experienced.

Behind him, the village gradually faded into a thick mist, shrouding it from view. But Dorian didn’t look back.

…

By nightfall, Dorian had found a cozy clearing to set up camp. As he kindled a fire, he thought back to the village, the chill of the pendant still fresh in his memory. “What were you trying to tell me?” he whispered to the pendant.

Before he could spiral too deeply into speculation, his attention was drawn to a distant flicker of light—a campfire, not far from his own. Intrigued, Dorian moved cautiously toward it, his lute slung across his back.

The scene that greeted him was one of camaraderie: three knights sat around a fire, their armor gleaming faintly in the firelight.

One of them, a man with a thick mustache and two swords strapped to his sides, was laughing heartily as he recounted a story. “—and then the poor lad fell right into the moat! I swear, even the gators were laughing!”

Beside him, a woman with a lance resting at her side sipped from a mug, trying and failing to suppress her own laughter.

The last of the trio—a massive, hulking figure whose towering shield was nearly as large as Dorian himself—sat silently, his face obscured by his helmet.

Grinning, Dorian struck up a lively chord on his lute, stepping into the firelight. “Well met, fellow travelers!”

The knights looked up in surprise, hands momentarily twitching toward their weapons before relaxing at the sight of Dorian’s cheery demeanor.

“What brings you out here, bard?” the mustachioed knight asked, his laughter still lingering in his voice.

“Stories, songs, and maybe a good meal, if you’re offering,” Dorian replied with a wink.

The knights exchanged amused glances as the woman gestured for Dorian to join their circle.

“You’re bold, bard,” she said, smirking. “That’s a good start.”