Chapter 1

  The midday sun beat down upon the castle grounds, its rays glinting off polished armor and freshly oiled bows. The final round of the archery competition was underway, and the air buzzed with the excited chatter of onlookers. Merchants peddled roasted meats and honeyed breads to eager buyers, while nobles in finely embroidered tunics observed from shaded pavilions.

  Standing atop the battlements, a cloaked figure watched the proceedings with keen interest. Beside them stood Master Corbin, the court wizard, his long silver hair flowing freely beneath a broad-brimmed hat.

  "The guy in second place," the cloaked figure said, voice low but steady. "That’s the one."

  Corbin arched a brow and turned slightly toward the figure. "Are you sure? The first-place winner is clearly more skilled. Look at that precision."

  The cloaked figure shook their head. "Too flashy. Competitions like these reward showmanship. He may be good on a field like this, but in real combat? not so much."

  Corbin let out a thoughtful hum, his gaze drifting back toward the competitors. Gareth Lorne, the young man in second place, stood with an air of quiet confidence. Though he lacked the flamboyant flair of the winner, there was a steady resolve in his posture, a kind of readiness that spoke to experience rather than performance.

  "I see your point," Corbin said after a moment. "Competitions favor spectacle. Real battles don’t."

  The cloaked figure took a step closer to the edge of the battlement, their eyes scanning the gathered crowd below. Nobles and commoners mingled in uneasy proximity, their excitement palpable but tinged with the usual tension. The cloaked figure’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  "This whole setup is ridiculous," they muttered. "Parading people like prizes, nobles posturing for favor. And this is just the start."

  Corbin gave a wry smile, folding his hands behind his back. "And yet, here we are, playing our parts in this game."

  The cloaked figure’s eyes narrowed, but they said nothing further. Instead, they focused on Gareth, who now stood wiping his brow as he awaited the final results. Despite his second-place standing, he seemed unfazed, as if the outcome mattered little to him.

  "He’ll do," the cloaked figure said at last.

  Corbin nodded. "I’ll make the arrangements. You should prepare for the introductions."

  The cloaked figure pulled their hood lower over their face, casting one last glance over the bustling crowd. This was only the beginning, and already, they could feel the weight of expectation pressing down. They turned away from the battlements, their cloak trailing behind them as they disappeared into the shadows.

  ***

  The courtyard buzzed with anticipation as Isabella stood among the other contestants, waiting her turn to be called forward. Her gaze flicked briefly over the crowd—hundreds of faces, nobles and commoners alike, all eager to watch the spectacle unfold. Banners bearing the king’s sigil snapped sharply in the breeze, and at the heart of the courtyard, a makeshift wooden stage rose above the sea of spectators. A stout man in regal robes stood atop it, holding a glowing orb that amplified his voice with a faint hum of magic.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to present the brave souls who shall comprise Team Three!" the announcer boomed, his voice echoing through the grounds.

  Isabella shifted her weight, her tail curling slightly behind her ankles, a subconscious motion she suppressed as quickly as it began. Beside her, Bran of Ashvale was the first to be called. He strode forward, armor clinking faintly as sunlight gleamed off mismatched metal plates. The applause that followed was deafening, a clear testament to the crowd’s approval.

  "Bran of Ashvale, third place in one-on-one combat! A rising star among our mercenaries, known for his strength and leadership!" the announcer declared.

  Bran’s expression remained composed, neither humble nor boastful, as he offered a curt nod before stepping back into place. Isabella watched him without turning her head, noting the way he held himself with quiet pride.

  "Next, Lyra Montclair, second place in the dueling competition!" The announcer’s words drew more cheers as Lyra, clad in a sleek duelist’s outfit, moved onto the stage. She walked with effortless grace, pausing just long enough to flash the crowd a brief smile. She looks every bit the noble she is. Isabella thought.

  The applause barely faded before Gareth Lorne was called. Isabella’s eyes tracked the young archer as he approached the stage, his calm, measured steps suggesting he was already used to such attention. He inclined his head politely to the crowd before joining Bran and Lyra in line.

  "Elias Thatcherson, first place in the magical course!" The crowd's energy shifted slightly—more curious now, as Elias approached with his usual air of superiority. His robes swirled dramatically around him, and Isabella caught a faint smirk on his face as he basked in the murmurs of admiration. Congratulations Elias. Don’t make me regret this.

  Her fingers tightened briefly at her side when she heard the announcer’s next words. "And last but not least, Isabella, second place in the obstacle and running target course!"

  This was her moment. Isabella stepped forward, her movements measured and deliberate, shoulders squared, chin high. She knew what the crowd saw—the flash of red skin, the curved horns, the tail that marked her as a Tiefling, Demonkin, Devil Blood. The applause faltered, less enthusiastic than it had been for the others. Isabella didn’t flinch. She had long since grown used to such reactions.

  Eyes ahead, posture rigid, she joined the line beside Elias without hesitation, refusing to acknowledge the muted response. Her heart didn’t quicken, her expression didn’t waver. If they wouldn’t cheer for her, so be it. She wasn’t here for their approval.

  "Team Three!" the announcer called, clapping his hands together in an exaggerated display of enthusiasm. "May they bring honor and glory to the kingdom!"

  The applause resumed—forced, in Isabella’s ears. The announcer turned to them, lowering the orb as the hum of magic faded. "Back to the waiting area," he said, keeping his voice low now. "Two more groups, then you'll proceed to the final course."

  Isabella pivoted with the others, heading toward the waiting area. She didn’t speak, didn’t glance at her teammates. Her focus remained on the task ahead, where the real challenge awaited. Let them cheer or not. This whole thing’s a farce.

  ***

  Isabella shifted on her feet, her tail curling slightly as she tried to ignore the weight of awkward silence hanging over Team Three. They had been standing in the courtyard for what felt like hours, waiting for their turn. Around them, the other groups loitered, some chatting quietly, others sizing up the competition. Finally, the announcer called their name. Relief mingled with tension in her chest as they moved forward toward the obstacle course.

  The once-open courtyard had been transformed. Spectators crowded on either side, eager for the show to begin. Ahead of Team Three, a six-foot wall with a single, narrow door stood waiting, oddly plain and unassuming.

  "Team Three, your first challenge is to get through the door!" The announcer’s magically enhanced voice echoed across the courtyard. "The timer will start as soon as you cross the white line!"

  Isabella joined the others behind the white line, glancing at the door warily. Something about it felt… off. Her gaze flicked briefly to Bran, who appeared deep in thought. Next to her, Elias muttered, "There must be a catch," eyeing the door with suspicion.

  Gareth, his bow slung over one shoulder, narrowed his eyes. "Trapped?"

  Bran frowned, his brow creasing as he considered their options. "Is anyone here good at finding traps?"

  Isabella opened her mouth to respond, but before she could get a word out, Lyra stepped forward confidently. "I can do it."

  Gareth’s voice was edged with skepticism. "Are we sure about this? Running ahead sounds risky."

  Bran’s tone turned decisive. "We don’t have time to debate. Lyra goes ahead and checks for traps. The rest of us will follow at a steady pace. If she can’t get the door open before we arrive, I’ll kick it in. If that doesn’t work, Elias can use his magic."

  Isabella watched as Lyra took a steadying breath before dashing forward. The spectators leaned forward in anticipation, their excitement palpable. The minor noble woman reached the door in a few quick strides and immediately began inspecting it, her hands running expertly along the edges of the frame. "There’s something here," she called back, her voice steady.

  The rest of the group approached cautiously, keeping an eye on their surroundings. Isabella found herself tensing, ready to react if something went wrong.

  A soft click broke the tension. Lyra straightened with a triumphant grin. "Got it!"

  Without missing a beat, Bran stepped forward and pushed the door open. Beyond it lay something entirely unexpected—a row of motionless clay golems, their blank eyes fixed ahead, standing just past another white line.

  Another door. Isabella’s eyes narrowed as she pointed to the wall behind the row of golems. "Looks like we have another puzzle," she said, her voice calm but wary.

  "Let’s keep moving," Bran said, stepping cautiously through the doorway. Isabella followed, her muscles tense as her gaze flicked toward the unmoving golems. She had no idea what triggered them, but she wasn’t about to let her guard down.

  The announcer’s voice rang out, rattling off their time as they entered the new section. Bran, focused on the golems, didn’t seem to pay attention. "Let’s take the golems on the right first," he suggested, scanning their surroundings.

  "Shut up," Gareth hissed, annoyance sharp in his tone. "I missed what our time was."

  Before anyone could respond, the announcer’s voice boomed again. "The timer will start as soon as you cross the line again. The timer will stop once you pass through the door."

  Isabella watched as Bran and Gareth began bickering over tactics, their voices growing louder. "We should flank them!" Bran insisted.

  "No, we need to pick them off one by one," Gareth countered, his frustration growing.

  Elias tried to interject, his voice barely cutting through the argument. "We don’t have to fight them. We just need to get through the door."

  Isabella exchanged an exasperated look with Lyra, both of them rolling their eyes. Enough of this nonsense.

  "Hey!" Isabella yelled, her voice cutting through the noise. Everyone fell silent, turning toward her. She pointed at Elias. "Say that again."

  "We only have to get through the door," Elias repeated, more clearly this time.

  Isabella gave a curt nod. "Then let’s focus on that." Bran and Gareth exchanged glances but didn’t argue further.

  With a new plan in place, they moved quickly. Elias stepped forward and cast a spell of darkness, shrouding the golems in a thick, impenetrable sphere of black magic.

  Lyra sprinted ahead, reaching the door first. She dropped to her knees, pulling out her lockpicks with practiced ease. Isabella could hear the faint clicking of metal as Lyra worked on the large lock.

  The rest of the group formed a defensive line. Bran raised his shield, ready to block any golems that might break through the darkness. Isabella positioned herself behind him, short sword in hand, trying to steady her breathing.

  Magical energy crackled as Elias launched bursts of power toward the golems, blowing apart a few of the constructs. Each spell took time to prepare, leaving gaps that made Isabella uneasy.

  Gareth quickly realized his bow was useless in the confined space. Drawing his short sword, he moved up beside Bran to strengthen the line. Isabella followed suit, though her strikes were hesitant. To her chagrin, her inexperience was painfully clear. She wasn’t used to fighting alongside other people.

  "Almost there!" Lyra called out, her voice tense but determined. A moment later, the lock clicked open with a satisfying snap.

  "Fall back!" Bran ordered, signaling the group to retreat. They began moving toward the now-open door, Bran and Gareth holding the front line while Isabella and Elias provided support from behind.

  As soon as everyone was through, Bran slammed the door shut with a heavy thud. The golems didn’t pursue.

  Gareth exhaled sharply, wiping sweat from his brow. "Well, that was fun," he muttered, sliding his sword back into its sheath.

  "Too close," Bran added, his voice strained as he caught his breath.

  Lyra grinned, twirling her lockpicks before tucking them away. "I’d say that went pretty well, all things considered."

  Isabella glanced back at the closed door. "We’re not done yet," she said quietly, her gaze shifting toward what awaited them beyond.

  The next challenge brought Team Three to the edge of a deep chasm, ten feet down and twenty feet across. Isabella eyed the stone and wooden pillars lining either side. They didn’t look particularly stable, and certainly didn’t offer any reassurance as to how they’d make it across. She crossed her arms, already anticipating something more than a simple jump.

  The announcer’s voice echoed across the field. "Your challenge is to cross the chasm. Points will be deducted for each member who falls into the pit. Timer starts once you cross the white line."

  "Anyone have rope?" Bran asked, his tone clipped but focused.

  “Yeah.” Isabella said with a quick nod and pulled a coil of rope from her pack.

  "You got any spell that could boost someone’s jump?" Gareth asked, turning to Elias with a hopeful look.

  Elias crossed his arms, scoffing. "Why would I waste time learning spells to make others jump better?"

  Lyra stepped closer to the white line, sizing up the distance. "I might be able to make it about ten feet without a boost," she offered.

  A tense silence settled over the group as they each considered their options. Isabella frowned, her mind racing through possible solutions. Finally, she broke the silence. "What if we push one of the pillars into the chasm?"

  Bran’s expression shifted, his eyes lighting up with approval. "Good idea. Get the rope ready."

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  Bran and Gareth positioned themselves on either side. Together, they began rocking the heavy stone structure back and forth. It groaned ominously under the strain but didn’t budge at first.

  "Come on," Bran muttered, digging in his heels. With one final, coordinated push, the pillar toppled over, crashing into the chasm below with a resounding thud.

  Wasting no time, Bran jumped down onto the fallen pillar and moved to its far end. "Alright, Lyra. Ready?"

  Lyra took a few steps back, gripping the rope tightly. With a burst of speed, she sprinted forward. As she leapt, Bran crouched low, planting his hands beneath her feet and giving her an extra push upward.

  Isabella watched, her heart pounding as Lyra soared through the air. The rope trailed behind her, the tension in the group palpable. Lyra hit the opposite edge hard, stumbling but managing to stay upright.

  "Rope’s secure!" Lyra called out after quickly tying it around a nearby pillar.

  One by one, the rest of the group crossed the chasm, using the rope for balance as they made their way along the fallen pillar. Isabella focused on each careful step, gripping the rope tightly, her tail flicking nervously behind her.

  Bran was the last to cross. He jumped, grabbing hold of the rope, and with help from Gareth and Isabella, hauled himself up onto solid ground.

  "Nice work," Bran said, brushing dust off his hands as he straightened.

  Elias, clearly not thrilled by the exertion, muttered, "Let’s hope the next challenge requires more brains and less brute force."

  Isabella smirked faintly, coiling the rope back into her pack. "I’m not sure there is another challenge."

  The group found themselves in a large room where Teams One and Two were already gathered. Across the way, Teams Four and Five were still tackling the previous challenges. Isabella noticed the tension hanging thick in the air as Gareth turned to Bran, irritation written all over his face.

  "We could’ve made more points if you’d actually listen to me," Gareth said sharply.

  Bran ignored him, his attention locked on the announcer as final times were recorded. Isabella shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t just Gareth’s frustration—something about the atmosphere in the room felt foreboding.

  At last, the announcer called all five teams out onto the field. The crowd cheered, but the air remained tense, as if everyone was waiting for something more significant.

  After a brief pause, the announcer’s voice rang out. "Teams Four and Five, thank you for your participation. You are dismissed."

  Isabella watched as the dismissed teams trudged off the field, heads bowed. She felt a flicker of sympathy but quickly focused as the announcer continued.

  "Teams Two and Five will receive consolation prizes. Step forward."

  Teams Two and Five approached the stage, accepted their prizes, and stepped aside. Isabella’s fingers tightened around the strap of her pack as the announcer turned to Team Three.

  "Team Three, please approach the stage."

  The crowd fell silent, and Isabella’s breath caught in her throat as the king himself stepped out from behind the stage. His regal bearing commanded immediate attention, and without hesitation, the entire crowd dropped to one knee.

  "Rise," the king said, his tone calm but firm. Isabella stood with the others, every muscle in her body tense as she waited for what came next.

  "Team Three," the king began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard, "you have earned the right to undertake a mission of great importance. Your task is to cross the Blackwater River, pass through the Shademire Swamp, and rescue my daughter from the clutches of the Dark Lord in Shadow Star Keep."

  Isabella watched the expressions on the faces next to her. The princess died at birth, or so everyone was told. Lyra’s scowl almost made her laugh. A murmur spread through the crowd at the mention of the princess and this so-called Dark Lord.

  "Should you succeed," the king continued, "you will be rewarded with noble titles and land. One of you may be permitted my daughter’s hand in marriage. Those who do not wish for such rewards may choose instead to accept a single payment of 500 gold crowns."

  Isabella’s eyes darted over her teammates. Confusion, disbelief, and unease were etched on their faces. The weight of the king’s words hung heavily over them all.

  Without further ceremony, the king turned and left, his abrupt departure leaving a thick silence in his wake.

  "Well," Bran said quietly, breaking the tension, "I guess we know what’s next."

  Gareth scowled, still skeptical. "Yeah, but none of us were expecting this, or the stakes."

  Lyra crossed her arms and gave Isabella a pointed look. "Looks like things just got a lot more complicated."

  Isabella nodded slowly, her expression serious. "Yeah, but… why wouldn’t he just send the army?"

  Elias shrugged, his tone dry. "Maybe he doesn’t want to risk losing an entire battalion in the swamp. Or maybe he’s hiding something. Nobles rarely tell the whole truth."

  Lyra shot a glare at Elias, but said nothing.

  Bran crossed his arms, frowning in thought. "Whatever the reason, it’s our mission now. We can speculate all we want, but it won’t change what we have to do."

  Gareth sighed, clearly still skeptical. "Fine. But we keep our eyes open. Something about this doesn’t add up."

  Chapter 2

  The ballroom was stifling. Chatter echoed from every corner, a ceaseless hum of laughter and whispered gossip. The air smelled of perfume and wine, a cloying mix that made Bran’s head ache. He tugged at his tunic’s stiff collar and glanced around the room. Nobles drifted in small groups, their jeweled finery glinting in the light of the grand chandeliers. Here and there, their eyes slid to him and then quickly away, followed by a smirk or a whisper. He clenched his jaw. They weren’t openly hostile, but their thinly veiled disdain was somehow worse. At least an enemy with a drawn sword was honest.

  Bran resisted the urge to fidget. I hate this. The weight of his sword was a constant comfort in battle, but here it was useless—a reminder that this was a battlefield of words and subtlety, not steel. Every smile felt like a trap, every laugh a dagger aimed at his back. Give me a fight over this any day.

  He was debating whether to seek refuge by the refreshments when a servant approached, bowing slightly before leaning in to speak. “Sir Bran of Ashvale, you’ve been summoned to gather your companions. The king has arranged for accommodations at the Rose and Thorn Inn, just outside the city walls. You are to depart in the morning.”

  Relief swept over him. An excuse to leave the party was a blessing. “Understood,” Bran said, nodding curtly. Finally. The servant bowed again and disappeared into the throng. Bran squared his shoulders and scanned the room. His task was clear—find the others and escape.

  He spotted Lyra near a cluster of nobles, her back straight and her hands folded demurely in front of her. Her calm expression might have fooled him at first glance, but the sharp glint in her eye gave her away. She was trading veiled barbs with a noblewoman, her words honeyed but her tone edged like a duelist’s blade. The noblewoman’s laughter was brittle, and the tension between them was palpable even from a distance.

  Bran strode over, catching the tail end of Lyra’s latest volley. “...of course, your family’s history is fascinating. I’d heard your great-grandfather was quite a skilled horse breeder. It must be rewarding to inherit such an illustrious legacy.”

  The noblewoman’s smile faltered. “Indeed. And I’m certain you find your own background equally rewarding, despite its... humbler beginnings.”

  “Lyra,” Bran interrupted, his voice firm. Both women turned to him, Lyra with a faint smirk, the noblewoman with an icy glare. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. “Do you know where the others are?”

  Lyra’s smile widened. “Of course. Elias is hiding in that corner over there.” She inclined her head toward a shadowy alcove, where Bran could just make out Elias clutching a goblet and doing his best to blend into the drapes. “Gareth is charming a few noble girls by the balcony. And Isabella—” Lyra frowned thoughtfully. “I think I saw her talking to some of the servants earlier. She moves fast, though.”

  “Thank you,” Bran said, keeping his tone brisk. We can’t leave fast enough. “I need you to help me gather them. We’re leaving for the inn soon.”

  Lyra tilted her head, studying him. “You’re no fun, Bran.” Her smirk faded slightly, and she leaned closer. “But for the record, I’m not enjoying this as much as it looks. These people...” Her gaze flicked back to the noblewoman, who had already turned away, muttering something to her companions. “They’re exhausting.”

  “All the more reason to leave,” Bran said. He gestured toward Elias’s corner. “I’ll send him to the courtyard. Go find Gareth. I’ll track down Isabella.”

  Lyra nodded, brushing past him with a murmured “Good luck.” Bran sighed and made his way toward Elias, who froze as Bran approached. After a brief conversation and a few reassurances that he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else, Elias headed out, taking the goblet with him.

  Bran wove through the crowd, searching for Isabella. He found her near the side of the room, her head bent close to a servant. Her posture was relaxed, but there was an intensity in her voice, though he couldn’t catch the words. He slowed, staying just far enough away to avoid interrupting, straining to overhear. What is she up to?

  The servant nodded, murmuring something Bran couldn’t make out, then hurried off, leaving Isabella alone. She turned, catching sight of Bran before he could pretend he wasn’t watching.

  “Something I can help you with?” she asked, her tone polite but cool. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her amber eyes glinted with something unreadable.

  “We’re meeting in the courtyard and heading to the inn,” Bran said, his voice steady. Then, before he could stop himself, he asked, “What were you talking to the servant about?”

  Isabella turned to him, one brow arching slightly. For a moment, her amber eyes searched his face, as though weighing how much to reveal. “I was giving him instructions for my absence,” she said finally. Her tone was casual, but something about the way she said it felt too practiced, too deliberate.

  Bran nodded, but unease prickled at the back of his mind. She’s hiding something. Or at least not saying in here. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, and right now, they told him to let it go for now. “Good. We leave early.”

  Isabella inclined her head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Of course.” Without waiting for a reply, she began walking toward the exit, her movements as fluid and composed as ever.

  Bran followed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. The nobles’ stares and murmurs barely registered now; his mind was busy turning over the exchange. She had answered his question, but there was something beneath her words, something unspoken. Giving him instructions for her absence. What does that really mean? He let out a slow breath. Whatever she’s keeping to herself, I’ll figure it out later. For now, he had to get out of this hellhole disguised as a party.

  ***

  The courtyard was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the thin veil of clouds. Bran spotted his group gathered near the fountain, their faces lit with a mixture of relief and weariness. The muffled sounds of the party inside still carried through the open windows, but out here, the air was cooler and freer. Finally, some breathing room.

  Elias stood slightly apart from the others, cradling a silver goblet in his hand. Bran frowned as he approached. “You planning on keeping that?”

  Elias blinked, looking down at the goblet as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Right.” He set it down on the edge of the fountain, muttering something under his breath. At least he didn’t try to justify it.

  Lyra chuckled, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they expect us to work with those people,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “All smiles and pleasantries, but they’d stab you in the back with a smile if they could.”

  Bran crossed his arms, his lips thinning into a line. She’s not wrong. I’d rather deal with an ambush on the road than that snake pit of a ballroom.

  “If titles mean becoming like them,” Gareth added, “maybe I’ll just take the gold and be on my way.”

  “No shit,” Elias murmured, glancing toward the brightly lit ballroom. “I’d rather deal with a cranky archmage than another night like that.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” Lyra said with a grin. “The king might just pair us with one for fun.” The group chuckled softly, the tension of the party beginning to ease as they fell into step with Bran leading them out of the courtyard. At least they could joke about it. Maybe that’s a good sign.

  The streets of the city were lively, even at this hour. Drunken peasants staggered arm in arm, singing off-key songs that echoed down the cobblestone streets. A few merchants leaned against their stalls, sharing laughs and stories as the celebration wound down. Bran kept his eyes moving, sticking to the edges of the road with the group. No point in attracting trouble. Not tonight.

  The city gates loomed ahead, their iron-bound doors standing slightly ajar. The guards stationed there straightened at the sight of the group but made no attempt to salute or acknowledge them beyond a brief glance. One of them waved lazily to signal their passage.

  Bran gave a curt nod as they walked through the gates. “Looks like we’re just another job to them,” he muttered, his voice low.

  “Good,” Isabella replied evenly from the back of the group. “Already had too much attention for one day.” Hard to argue with that. Bran thought.

  Beyond the gates, the night was quiet save for the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional distant cheer from the city. The moon bathed the path in pale light, making the walk to the inn feel less foreboding than it might have otherwise. Conversation ebbed and flowed, mostly centered on the party and their shared disdain for the nobles. By the time they reached the Rose and Thorn Inn, the sounds of the city had faded entirely. The building sat at the edge of a grove, its dark timber walls glowing faintly in the moonlight. A single lantern burned by the door, casting flickering shadows over the cobblestones.

  Inside, the common room was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made Bran’s instincts prick. The innkeeper, a stout man with a balding head, glanced up from wiping the bar and offered a nod. “You must be the king’s lot. Welcome.”

  “Quiet night?” Lyra asked, her voice tinged with suspicion as she scanned the room.

  The innkeeper set the cloth aside. “Rented out the whole place for you lot. No one else but me and the staff.” He gestured toward a pile of gear stacked near the hearth. “Your things are there. Provisions, too.”

  The explanation settled the group’s nerves somewhat, though Bran noticed Lyra’s hand linger near the hilt of her sword as she stepped past the bar. The others moved to claim their belongings, muttering about the oddness of it all. Good instincts. Better cautious than careless.

  Bran stayed near the door, his gaze sweeping the room. The faint smell of stew hung in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the timber walls. The quiet felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the city, but there was no sign of anything amiss. Maybe too quiet, but let’s hope it stays that way.

  The innkeeper placed bowls of steaming stew on the table, his movements brisk but not hurried. His eyes darted toward the group’s pile of belongings and lingered for a moment before he turned back to fetch a pitcher of ale. Bran caught the glance but chose not to comment. Curious, aren’t you? Wondering what kind of mess we’re about to drag into your inn?

  “Help yourselves,” the innkeeper said, setting down the pitcher along with a collection of mismatched mugs. His tone was polite, but he lingered nearby, wiping an already clean section of the bar. Bran noted how the man’s ear tilted slightly in their direction as the group began sorting through their gear. He’s listening. Can’t blame him. If I were him, I’d be doing the same.

  Lyra dropped a bundle of rolled-up maps onto the table. “Looks like someone went all out,” she said, untying the string and spreading one open. The rest of the group gathered around as Gareth leaned in, examining it with a raised brow.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy is this?” Gareth said, scoffing. He jabbed a finger at the winding, tangled route depicted on the map. “This isn’t a path—it’s a drunken scribble.”

  Bran stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. The map showed a labyrinthine trail through dense forests and marshy terrain, skirting every major road. The destination, Shadow Star Keep, was marked with a bold black star at the end of the convoluted path. Hardly a direct route. Someone wants us to take the long way around, and they’re not hiding it.

  “Looks like they’re trying to make this as hard as possible,” Lyra said, crossing her arms. Her tone was casual, but Bran could sense the tension beneath it. She’s right. Nothing about this feels straightforward.

  “Wait,” Elias said, pointing to a spot on the map in the middle of a swamp labeled ‘Known Dark Lord Outpost’. “That can’t be real. Who writes something like that? And how could they possibly know?”

  The group made a collective chuckle, though the humor was edged with unease. “Oh yes,” Lyra said, grinning. “Because every self-respecting dark lord makes sure to label their evil lair for convenience.”

  Gareth shook his head. “What’s next? A tavern for their henchmen called ‘The Villain’s Alehouse’? This is absurd.”

  Bran, however, couldn’t shake his suspicion. “Absurd or not, it’s on the map for a reason,” he said, his voice low. He glanced at the innkeeper, who quickly averted his gaze and began busying himself with stacking empty mugs. He knows better than to ask. Smart man. “Whoever made these maps wanted us to take this path, or at least head to this supposed outpost.”

  Isabella traced the route with her finger, her expression unreadable. “The question is whether it’s a warning... or bait.”

  “Or a joke,” Elias muttered, earning a glare from Isabella. “What? It could be.”

  Bran exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Regardless, we’ll be wandering through the swamp. Complaining won’t change it. Let’s finish sorting this mess and get some rest.”

  The group divided the provisions, their banter gradually fading as the reality of the map’s implications set in. The innkeeper, still lingering in the background, occasionally glanced their way but said nothing. Bran couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze, even as they worked. He’s nervous. Why?

  Later, as the stew cooled in their bowls and the pile of extra supplies dwindled, Bran caught himself staring at the map again. Known Dark Lord Outpost. The words felt ridiculous, but the pit in his stomach refused to let them go. Ridiculous mission, ridiculous map. And yet, here we are. What exactly are we walking into?

  Author’s notes:

  This story started as a D&D one shot I was building. I never finished building it. And I never have time to play D&D.

  I’m trying to add some obvious inner monologue to this story. I don’t normally do that. Usually I weave my character’s thoughts into the paragraph as if they are the narrator. I’m not sure I like the inner monologue mostly due to the idea of keeping inner and outer dialogue separate for audio. I’ve been listening to an audio book that uses a lot of inner monologue and I find myself stopping often to think over whether the character said that out loud or not.

  Also. And I hope you can’t tell. This story is written by AI. I’ve waited for the 2nd chapter to point it out because I don’t want people immediately ignoring it, just because of that. At least for this experiment. Going forward, I want to be very clear about what is and is not written by AI. I’m not sure if I should just put “Heads up, this chapter is written by AI” on each chapter or if I should put all AI written things under my other RR profile.

  What are your thoughts? There was a lot of up front work put in and I’m running this less like an Author and more like a Director and editor.