You’re on a ship for three days.

  Time blends together, smeared across the up-and-down of black waves. You and the villagers are chained together at the bow. You’re lucky to be near the edge. Your hands bleed from clutching the rail, salt water stinging them. You’re given meager, stale bread and dried meat, but you can barely keep them down. There’s only the churning and tilting of your guts, an uncomfortable fullness in your throat at the prospect of food.

  You feel paralyzed except for the moments where you drag yourself to the edge of the ship, spewing over the side. You feel caught in the moment of being carried from that inn room, screaming and helpless. You wonder if Keo died quickly, if you could’ve saved him. You wonder if he might have convinced you to stay another few days. You know the answer. You don’t think about it.

  The villagers leave you alone except to huddle for warmth. But they talk sometimes in hushed whispers, trying to reassure each other. The birdfolk near you won’t stop crying. Two of them die from wounds and are pitched overboard. You have no idea where you’re going, but you’re headed south. Why? The thought lingers like a prowling animal. You wonder if it would be better to jump, but you can’t. You’d be reeled in by your chains. You can only watch the churning, black waves crash and split underneath.

  Sleep is hard to come by. You catch only snatches of it, your body throbbing for rest. Your legs ache from being cramped and unused. The raiders are boisterous during the day, songs drifting from the rowing deck. You know some of them, humming along to keep your mind off things. Others, you learn quickly, committing them to memory. During the night, you hear only the roar of the waves, the howling of the wind, the creaking of the ship, the snapping and groaning of the pitch-black sails overhead.

  Sometimes, you catch glimpses of the half-giant who found you. He stalks the main deck, his axe and long whip in his belt. He picks a different villager every morning, strapping them to the mast and lashing them raw in case anyone gets ideas. Or it might just be for fun. Sometimes, the dark elf is there, too. She watches, something like pleasure on her face. Her magical flaming sword is always on her belt.

  You’re heaving and choking dryly over the rail when you spot land. You’ve barely eaten anything, and your vision is blurry. This is the closest you’ve ever felt to death. You squint, peering ahead. The land is real. You’re not far and headed directly to it.

  An island looms. Another one is to the left of it, with a third farther off. Dozens of smaller islands are scattered around. You comb through your vast bits of acquired knowledge. You remember seeing a map in Byra from an old elf mapmaker who pointed you to Woudhoven, where you took a ship to Rheda. The Byrian Isles are off the northwest coast of the Southern Wash. They’re part of Byrio, governed by its capital, Byra, but maintain independence from it. They’re renowned for their ships – longships, like the one you’re on, built for utter speed and maneuverability. Byra is a completely different place from this – it’s the largest city on Vesh and the world's most celebrated center of culture and art. It’s where you bought your fiddle. Why do they let this happen?

  Your heart twinges. Your magic is unusable without your fiddle, except for the most minor magics. You don’t even dare use them. You’re exceedingly rare among these people, having mastered any magic at all. It’ll make things worse if you show you’re a mage. You wonder if you’ll ever get another instrument. Keo mentioned you would be famous one day. It looks like he was wrong. You might just be a slave for the rest of your life. Your mind warps, trying to encompass the thought.

  You spot a harbor. There are more longships docked and people scurrying about to receive you. You hope you’ll be on steady land soon. The rest of the island is rocky, jagged, and hard. Forest covers most of it. Waves break and shatter against tall cliffs and rock-tumbled shores. Near the harbor is a massive shipyard, skeletons of new longships curling behind the masts and folded sails. Further down the coast, a settlement is built on a stony slope. At the top is a large building supported by thick beams and thatched with dense greenery.

  The longship docks. More people arrive, and the raiders file off, carousing and congratulating one another. You watch the half-giant and dark elf leave, talking and walking toward the hall. A group of people arrives – many of them are armed. One is a grizzled old half-elf with a beard.

  You and the villagers are prodded off the ship, still in your chains. You nearly collapse when your feet hit solid ground. You will your legs to hold. You’re marched toward the settlement, where you’re lined up in front of the half-elf and some other people. One has a writing board, paper, and a pencil. They begin moving down the line, writing names. It’s hard to focus. You’re weak and barely able to think. But you have to. They’re getting closer.

  “What’s your name?” asks the dwarf in a brusque accent.

  Your throat is dry and raw, burned by stomach acid. You wonder if you’ll ever sing again. You cough, finding your voice after three days of disuse. “Chouncey,” you say. “Of Seven Oaks.”

  The dwarf eyes you, then scribbles something down. The human beside her speaks up. “What skills do you have?”

  None, you almost say. You hate hard labor. You’re not built for it. You almost wish they would kill you now.

  But you don’t say it. You clench your shackled hands. You like living too much.

  “Right,” the human says, glancing you over. He nods toward the dwarf. “Kitchens, then –”

  “I know some languages,” you say. They look back at you.

  “Which ones?” the human says.

  “Needless to say, common. Elven and goblin,” you say. “And fey.”

  They pause. The human’s brow goes up. “Fey?”

  It’s an older form of elven and spoken in the deeper reaches of Vesh, where the fey realm bleeds over. It was taught to you by a satyr during the Running of the Moon, the largest and longest party seen on all of Coramine twice a year in Byra. He brought you to his friends for a night of revelry in return. You grow warm at the memory.

  “Yes.”

  The burly old half-elf appears. “We got ourselves a linguist, huh?”

  “It appears so,” the dwarf says, scribbling more.

  “Lucky find,” the half-elf says. “Get him out of there. I’ll bring him up.”

  You don’t know what that means. You feel the villagers' eyes as the human produces a key, freeing your chains from the rest. The half-elf shoves you toward the hall, and you nearly stumble over. Burly raiders follow, ready to axe you if you try to run.

  The hall looms, and people stare as you walk through the settlement. There are houses, stores, workshops, taverns, and even an inn. The buildings are all rustic, made of weathered wood and thatch, decorated with scrolling knot patterns. You hear faint screams. You glance toward the rocky shore. People are out there, ankle-deep in the low tide. They’re roping something to a tall rock. Someone.

  The half-elf shoves open the large doors of the hall. Inside, the long tables are full of raiders – probably the same ones who just got off the ship. Sound burbles out. They’re feasting on tender-looking mutton, potatoes, and onions. Your stomach clenches. Massive casks of ale are tapped in the corner. They turn and look as you’re marched down the main thrust between tables. But you barely see them.

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  Seated at the high table is a hulking black dragonkin.

  He’s middle-aged, some of his scales beginning to wither and gray. The dark elf woman with the magic sword sits at his right. They’re talking. His black eyes turn and fall on you. You shudder. They seem to peel your skin away. There’s something hateful in them. Or maybe mad.

  The half-elf kicks the back of your knee. You fall forward, catching yourself. “This is the Warchief. Keep your head down,” he spits.

  The dragonkin’s nostrils flare. “Why are you disrupting my meal?” His voice rumbles like death itself.

  The half-elf gestures toward you. “Torm picked this one up. He says he knows a few languages.”

  You meet the dragonkin’s dark eye. He peers at you. “Is that so?” Then he says something you don’t understand. It’s guttural and ancient, shaped by his spiky throat. You realize you do understand. It’s draconic. You only know the basics. He’s asking if you speak it.

  “A little,” you return, your dry throat disagreeing with the sound. “But I learn fast.”

  “He says he knows fey, too. What else?” the half-elf asks you.

  You’re exhausted. You can barely see straight. The half-elf nudges you none too gently with a foot. “Elven and goblin,” you say in common.

  The dragonkin grunts. “Where’d you learn those?”

  “I’m a… musician. I’ve traveled all over.” The dragonkin grunts again. You realize it’s something like a laugh. Something tells you the arts aren’t worth much here. You have to keep talking and save yourself. You continue. “Maybe I can be helpful to you. Surely every Warchief worth his salt could use a… scop in his hall.”

  You don’t say “bard.” The moment they realize what you are, you’ll become too dangerous. He peers at you for a moment, nodding. Murmurs come from the raiders watching. “You’re right.” He turns to the half-elf. “I’ll take him. If he’s lying, I’ll drop him in the Pit.”

  “What if I want him?” the dark elf purrs.

  The dragonkin snaps, brandishing the knife he’s eating with. “You’ll eat your hands if you touch him.”

  You go cold. You’re shaking, you realize.

  He turns back to you. “Give us a song.”

  You glance around. You’re still kneeling. You’re not sure if your legs will work if you stand. “I’d love to do your hall justice on this fine evening, but I just got off the ship. And I’ve… not got an instrument.”

  He grunts again. He gestures to the half-elf. “Go get him one.” The half-elf turns to leave. “The one from the vault. I want to hear it.”

  Footsteps clomp away. The half-giant with the whip stands from the high table, approaching you with a cup of something. “You smell like you just got off the ship.”

  He tips his drink onto you. It soaks you immediately. It’s cold here. The scent of ale is sharp, mixed with the musty wood underneath you. Everyone laughs. You wipe your face with your grimy shirt. The half-giant appears again, handing you the cup this time. It’s filled with ale again. You don’t know if he’s done anything to it. It doesn’t matter. You need fluids after three days at sea, especially if you’re going to sing shortly. You choke it down. Someone laughs. It sits badly in your stomach. You hand it back.

  The half-elf reappears. He unlocks your chains, then puts something in your hands. You freeze.

  It’s a mandolin. It’s made of smooth hardwoods, exquisitely crafted, with a heart-shaped spruce piece housing the likewise sound hole. You glance around, trying to appear calm. You’ve never played a mandolin. You can manage. It’s not too far from a fiddle. But there’s a bigger issue.

  It absolutely thrums with magic.

  You can only stare at it. Maybe you’re delirious. You look at the dragonkin. Are they really giving this to you? Every bard has at least heard of the bardic artifacts – one-of-a-kind instruments imbued with incredible power. Who made them? Very few know. And a few minutes ago, you thought they only existed in legend. Only a small handful were made, lost to collectors or dragon hoards or simply forgotten. A slaver just put one in your hands. Do they realize what this is? You pause, feeling it. It seems to be waiting for something.

  “Could I, um… could I have a few minutes?” you ask. The raiders start muttering, growing discontent. You’re perched on a razor-thin line. “I’ve gotta get warmed up.”

  The dark elf rolls her yellow eyes. “He’s stalling. I want a fucking song.”

  The half-giant peers eagerly down at you. “I’ll make him sing.”

  The dragonkin narrows his dark eyes, almost peering through you again. “Five minutes.”

  You nod, staying put. It’s the most important five minutes of your life. You block out the noise of the busy hall. People step around you as you kneel on the ale-soaked floor. It could take hours to figure out the full capabilities of this mandolin, but you have a fraction of the time.

  A system of tremendous ley lines surrounds Coramine, allowing anyone adept enough to harness their magic. They form connections to each user, like strings on a puppet. To some, like yourself, they can be played like the strings of an instrument. All seven hum with a particular frequency, a note in an arcane scale, each growing in power. But it’s the overtone of each that allows you to unlock something more profound, to craft magic accordingly, mimicking its feel, harmonizing with it. With each spell, you harness a ley line, committing yourself as its conduit, determining how the power manifests. While it can be done through dedicated study, faith, or experience, some people, like yourself, do it through sheer balls. And without enough character, latching onto too much ley line at once can be devastating.

  You bend your will toward the instrument, searching for a tether, a connection. Some extremely powerful items have their own tiny ley lines, allowing you to draw on their inherent magic. You sense one here. The arcane energy shifts suddenly. It’s like a door opening up, like synapses connecting. There’s a will coming from the instrument itself – not sentient, but something else. It wants to be played by you. And it’s offering you magic – spells imbued into its wooden fibers, more potent than anything you’ve ever harnessed.

  You nearly gasp. They can’t have given this to you on purpose. Do they know you’re a bard? Because this instrument was made for one. You can’t let them know.

  You strum a few chords, find your fingerings, and craft some chords. You hum and find your voice. The mandolin comes naturally to you – it’s the reverse tuning of a fiddle. You can work with it. Your fingers sting from the slivers and saltwater of the ship. But you make them work anyway. Your life depends on it.

  You glance up, and the dragonkin is still watching you. You nod.

  “Quiet!” he belts. The room falls silent in an instant. One person keeps talking. You turn at the commotion as a sword is drawn. You quickly look away as a scream is cut short.

  You stagger to your feet, steadying yourself. If you fail here, you’ll be dead on the floor, too – or worse. Whatever reserves of strength and willpower you still have, you scrape them from the bottom.

  You begin strumming. This instrument is one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard, light and resonating in tone, tinkling like a light rain on a sun-swept day. The courses lift the tone even higher. This instrument could finance a small estate back in Byra, or bring someone to tears in the right hands. You begin singing a song that everyone here will know - churning and grooving. You spent three days listening to raiders grunt and chant it as they bent over their oars. It’s a rowing song – or maybe a drinking song. It’s perfect for this hall.

  I know a place where you can lose all your pay

  I know a place where you can drink it away

  We're going south

  Down, down, down, down, down

  Of this I will swear, Byra the bastard is there

  We're going south

  Some of them begin tapping their mugs and joining in. Your voice rasps with malnourishment, but you force through it, continuing as many verses and choruses as you can remember. It’s not your best performance, but it’s your most important. You harmonize with them, turning and beckoning them onward. They eagerly follow. For a moment, the horror of your situation fades. For a moment, you’re in a Warchief’s hall next to a crackling fire, singing for his jarls and raiders. For a moment, you smile. For a moment, you can almost believe you became a bard worth remembering.

  You lead them through a few more verses, then finish, turning back to the dragonkin. He leans back in his chair, hand around his cup. “Where’d you learn that?”

  You gesture over your shoulder. “From them.”

  He nods slowly. He turns to the half-elf, now sitting at the high table, too. “He’s mine.”

  Hands fall on you, taking the mandolin and dragging you back outside. The warmth and burble of the hall fade, replaced with cold ocean air and the roar of waves, buzzing from the creeping blackness of the sky. You can’t find a single star. You’re brought through the settlement to a building. It's some kind of forge, glowing hot and melting the darkness into gold. You feel the heat ten feet away. It smells like burnt meat. Something claws at your stomach, wondering why they’re bringing you here. You stop, and they drag you forward.

  When they throw you to the ground and kneel over you, pinning you down, ripping off your boot, you find out.