Resolve

“Some men fight their whole lives to obtain responsibility, and then buckle under that weight.” -Excerpt from “Uncredited Proverbs”

The inn was loud, but the noise dulled around me like the bottom of a lake. The mug in my hand was half-empty—my third? Fourth? It didn’t matter. My sword leaned beside my chair, untouched since I’d entered.

Jean gave me a long glance between polishing mugs.

“You planning on drowning yourself in ale, or just soaking your regrets in it?”

I didn’t look up. “Whichever is faster.”

He snorted. “You don’t look like the usual sad drunk. Something about you says heartbreak.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“You wear it worse than most. Was it that girl from before?”

“Elma, yes.”

Jean nodded. “Pretty name. Did she leave?”

I shook my head. “She stayed. That’s the problem.”

I didn’t expect him to respond. But after a moment, he set down the mug and leaned in.

"So, you loved her and she loved you, but something got in the way eh? Not an uncommon tale."

I huffed. "Indeed. I've heard many of those tales myself, sung the few that withstood the test of time, but I never thought I'd find myself falling into the trap myself."

The old barkeep raised an eyebrow at that. "Love?"

"Aye, love. I truly thought that it would be enough, that I would be enough, to convince her. Once again, I fell short of the expectations of others. In the end, love wasn't enough, just like she said."

“Hmm. I would agree that love isn’t everything. That it’s not always enough. But it is something. Maybe the most important thing, if you’ve got the spine for it.”

I gave a tired laugh. “It wasn’t enough for her. Duty outweighed it. She's marrying some pompous ass—other than me, that is."

Jean grunted. “Maybe. But love’s a foundation, son. You can build anything on it if the stone’s good. Without it? You’re just waiting for the walls to crack under the weight of whatever comes after.” He poured himself a drink and took a sip. “This man she’s marrying—he got that kind of foundation?”

“No.” My voice was sharp. Sure.

“Then why are you sitting here drinking?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I didn’t have an answer that wasn’t cowardice. The barkeep gave me a look and limped back to his work, leaving me to the silence and my thoughts.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That night, in my rented room beneath the low-sloped rafters, I lit a lantern and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. The ink stuttered slightly as I began.

Zygan, I write you not as your student but as someone who needs help. You always said music was a bridge between souls. I need that bridge now. I won’t explain everything in this letter. Just know that I am asking you for a favor. One that could have consequences. But I don’t know who else I could trust with this. If you can find it in your heart to answer, send word to the capital before the wedding...

I sealed it with wax and pressed a copper coin into the crest, then left it with the courier before dawn.

By afternoon, I was clean-shaven, dressed in the finest clothing I could afford—an elegant dark coat with embroidered cuffs and a fine velvet vest. My lute, polished and pristine, hung from my shoulder.

At the manor gates, I bowed with practiced charm. “I am Deryth. I was summoned to audition for the wedding performance. I believe Master Zygan put in a word.”

The guards narrowed their eyes. One of them stepped back to consult a steward while the others kept hands near their hilts. I kept a pleasant smile on my face throughout, trying to appear as harmless as possible. Moments passed. The steward returned and nodded curtly. “Zygan was indeed once the personal minstrel of Lord Ulbreith. It’s not unlikely he would send a student. Come in.”

As I passed through the marble halls and courtyards, I made note of every corner, every staircase, every servant’s door tucked away in shadow. Not openly—I wasn’t a thief—but with the alertness of a man who might need to act on short notice. I memorized the placement of guard patrols, the entrances to the kitchens, the flow of foot traffic from room to room. It wasn't the first time I’d had to map a place with my eyes and ears, and the skill returned to me as easily as breathing.

The manor was lavish, its halls lined with old paintings and woven tapestries depicting the Ahlríon lineage. Sunlight streamed in through arched windows and glinted off brass fixtures. Every detail screamed wealth, power, and tradition. A place where appearances mattered more than truths.

In the main salon, I was announced to the Duke himself.

Rhys Ahlríon was tall and lean, with silver streaks in his dark hair and an ageless precision to his movements. He sat in a high-backed chair of dark wood, flanked by advisors and servants. His expression was calm but sharp, the eyes of a man used to command.

“You were not on the schedule,” Duke Ahlríon said bluntly. “Who summoned you?”

“No one, my lord,” I said with a respectful bow. “But I would be remiss to miss the opportunity to offer my talents for a celebration of such magnitude.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. “Bold.”

“Only where beauty and honor deserve it.”

A faint smile crept across Rhys’s face. “Very well. Let us hear you, bard.”

With a steadying breath, I stepped forward and let my fingers dance over the strings. The music flowed soft and graceful at first—a wistful melody that called to mind a lover’s longing, the ache of distance, the pull of fate. Then it surged into a crescendo, hopeful and triumphant, with harmonies that evoked stars aligning and promises kept. My voice, low and sure, accompanied the strings like wind over water. When it ended, the room was quiet. The Duke sat in still contemplation before nodding.

“You have the gift. You may play at the ball.”

I bowed again, more deeply this time. “Thank you, my lord. I will serve with pride.”

As I was escorted to the guest wing, I kept my expression composed, even serene, but in my chest, my heart beat louder than the drums of any march. In five days, I would act. And this time, I wasn’t leaving without her.