Isa’s PoV - South of Eyrarháls

The town’s songs are audible even with the southern-most farm barely within view in the dawn’s light. The hectic notes blending and clashing for good or ill, strangely contrasting to a stately song further south. It resonates up from the depths, a beat struck with more regularity than the Dwarven thrum within Stoneheart. Its presence tweaks my curiosity, but Ilya’s song is still twitching from being underground. Investigating isn’t likely to happen, and unsatisfied curiosity prickles at me.

“This matches the image Ebusuku sent. Did you want to wait longer before heading in?” Ilya asks. Listening past her brighter tone is a song more relaxed than I’ve ever heard, yet it still carries a heart attack’s worth of tension. The sharp beats played on steel drums are now a deep bass rumble—the purring of a great cat.

All the hints she’s danced around, so I resort to a direct question. “Why did you tell them Amdirlain’s servants paid our fee? Ebusuku isn’t giving us anything specific to tackle these problems.”

Ilya’s song rings with caution and embarrassment. “They’ve already given us plenty. I’d prefer to balance things out, since it’s not a trap needing us to play, grab the loot, and run. Doesn’t everyone suspect a catch when something is said to cost nothing? This way they’ll be grateful to Amdirlain’s folks since they can see a reason for them to be involved.”

“And not react as we did?” I dig gently, knowing Ilya’s taking time to get free of the paranoia Hell taught her.

“It gets to join the rest of my regrets,” Ilya admits with deliberate lightness, stretching gracefully with fingers laced overhead. “Gifts always come with prices in my experience, and I thought she’d use them to drag us apart. Now I know you weren’t lovers, well it’s easier to see how I misjudged things. Your reactions were off, and I felt blades along my spine like an Assassin was about—a feeling that kept getting stronger. Was Amdirlain always so generous?”

At the subject change, I choke back laughter and don’t share there’d been two assassins once Ebusuku had arrived. Giving her a quick nod draws forth a sigh, and she nervously plays with the short multi-hued locks she possesses in her Sunset Elf form. The action reminds me of the long mane I assumed before meeting the adventurers. It’s a length far longer than I’d worn in life but feels right.

“She wouldn’t pauper herself, but she’d give a lot for those she cares about. I worry about how much we’ve changed,” I say, breaking free from contemplating her body.

“The three of you?” asks Ilya, erratic notes of confusion echoing in her song. “I thought you said Sidero was cold and ruthless, that’s hardly a good change.”

“Apparently Sidero’s chains are alive. If her state also hides her song, it will all be their nature, not hers,” I say and caress her cheek before I go on. “But I meant all four of us. You’re no longer that ignorant village girl looking for revenge.”

“I’ve changed too much and in ways that I never noticed until I met you. I’m surprised I didn’t end up as something completely different. Me! A Celestial! Who’d have figured—a Jinn maybe with my part-heritage—ending up a Celestial is so weird.”

“Think of it as a chance to rise higher than you might have,” I offer brightly.

“I’ll try not to make a mess of things again,” replies Ilya, and gives me a mischievous grin. “I guess your luck rubbed off on me.”

The sun has fully risen when we Teleport far ahead beneath some roadside trees and surprise some merchants heading in the opposite direction. When we keep moving onwards the caravan guards slowly ease their hands from weapons, though their songs stay wary.

The town’s song grows rapidly as we continue line of sight teleports, but we walk before the southern curve of the outer wall. It’s a section that extends south from just to the right of the gatehouse, and jumps eastwards along its course. From the description in Amdirlain’s account, I’d guess it’s the district that holds the enclave of the Daughters, even without the joyous martial song that I’d heard when we’d arrived. How long will the farmers now within resist temptation of someone waving coins for protected land?

“I want to go see the Daughters of Hope’s compound,” I murmur to Ilya.

Ilya shrugs unfussed by my extension of our plans. “What are we handling first?”

“Víðarr, I’ll be able to tell by hearing his song if I can fix his eyes,” I reply quickly. Increasing my pace, I aim for a line made up of farmers towing handcarts. The guards checking them were far quicker than those examining two wagons waiting to go in.

As soon as I get close, I hear the guards’ songs gain quick light notes that chime with caution and more than a smidge of desire. I’m glad I’m used to restraining my Charisma unlike Amdirlain had been. Still, with Elven hotties about I’d certainly look, window shopping is always fun.

“Name and reason for entry into Eyrarháls?” the nearest guard asks while another checks the handcart ahead of us.

“Rúsea, and I’m seeking to meet Víðarr, a Priest of Týr, and a few others. Is the food and mead at The Silver Chalice still good?”

“It’s said to be, not that I’ve got coin to spend at the fanciest Inn,” replies the guard, and he glances at Ilya, but she just points him at me.

“Tiror’s my bodyguard and keeps me from wagering all my coins in dice games. She doesn’t speak Norse.”

Which is true, but then neither do I. No point learning it when Tongues handles all the translation we’re likely to need.

The rules are simple enough, and he hands us the ward chit the moment he records the names. If we’re not having to flee within the day, I’m pretty sure we still won’t be staying the three we’re allowed. The crowded streets sing of magical repairs, and while lots of folks’ clothing is well worn, there aren’t any beggars about. Though the fellows shovelling freshly processed hay into carts look much the worse for wear.

Counter shops serving simple foods mingle in with stores, and straight-up inns. Our presence among the townsfolk ends up drawing no end of rubbernecking. Stealthy notes mingle in with a sudden look-away Spell from Ilya. The Spell makes us suddenly fit totally in place, despite Ilya’s grip locking suddenly on a girl’s wrist. The Spell continually nudges surrounding minds to find nothing of interest amid our goings-on.

“Join the Adventurers’ Guild and practice being a Thief away from towns,” Ilya warns in a whisper.

The teenage girl with her hair cut short, and breasts bound tight might barely pass for a boy. Then again, maybe she passes better to others, but her song makes her gender and the pain of her tightly bound breasts clear. Her clothing matches the labourers on the street. The rough worn cloth of her pants and shirt are on the lower end of what we’ve seen but not so far to stop her blending in. The brown eyes that glare at us match the colour of the smudged dirt streaking her ash blond hair and tanned broad face. Her song is sneaky and desperate but her mind is bright, rather than vicious.

“Takes coins to sign up,” the lass protests, trying to pull her arm free of Ilya’s grip.

“She’s already a Thief and a Scout, though only first level in each,” I inform Ilya after a moment listening to her song, and direct my attention to the girl. “I’d suggest you add at least one combat Class in the mix to hold your own, perhaps get enough training for Fighter. Heads or crests, girl?”

“What are you talking about? I’m a boy.” she exclaims in a pitch that doesn’t help her case.

“Really?” grumbles Ilya in High Elven, already having seen me play this game in other towns while we followed Viper’s trail.

“What, it’s only Paqnid’s coins,” I grin at Ilya, and turn my attention back to the girl. “Heads or crests?”

The girl’s gaze loses some of its hostility amid her confusion. “What do you mean?”

Pulling a large Dwarven gold from Inventory, I set it spinning across my knuckles. “I guess you don’t toss coins.”

“Ours don’t have heads or crests on them,” the girl retorts. Her song and glances make it clear she’s baffled at the passers-by still ignoring us despite Ilya’s grip on her.

“They’ll not be interested in any of us,” Ilya notes, “A precaution to avoid someone yelling thief and hauling you away.”

I present the coin to her so she could see it. “King’s face is on one side, mountain peaks are the other.”

“Why are you wanting me to pick a side?” asks the girl suspiciously.

“If you don’t, we’ll be here all day,” Ilya sighs, and the girl has her attention fixed on me. “If you win, she’s going to do something nice for you, and if you lose, it’ll be a lesser prize, but you’ll still win. She’s in a cheerful mood at present.”

“Heads.”

The coin flip proves her the winner, and I toss her the gold. “Five more when we get there.”

Ilya let go of her wrist the moment the girl won, and her song grows emboldened, but she doesn’t run immediately. Snatching it from the air, the girl turns with the coin in her grasp, only for Ilya to snag her by the collar.

“Looks like I’m not the only suspicious person. Where were you going to get her to lead us?” asked Ilya after her chuckles ease.

“The Adventurers’ Guild, I was going to settle the signup fee for her.”

“She’s already a gold closer, and not missing a hand or whatever they do here,” Ilya retorts, her laughter relaxing her shoulders.

“Guess it was doubly her lucky day,” I reply and stepping close I tilt the girl’s chin up. Her eyes are clear, and she looks sharp enough to cut herself. “How old are you, and what’s your name?”

“Are you deranged?” the girl growls, twisting about futilely in Ilya’s grasp.

At a tearing sound from her doublet, Ilya shifts a hand to her shoulder, and under her iron grip the girl stops trying to get free. “She’s a Priest of Luck, sometimes it’s incredibly hard to tell.”

“That’s not nice to say even if it’s true,” I mutter and turn to the girl. “How would you like to be adopted?”

“She’s not a stray kitten,” grumbles Ilya.

“No fair, you didn’t let me keep the cougar either! She’s a growing girl, but her music is sorrowful and tired,” I retort. “Obviously, she needs a patron to keep her out of trouble.”

Before I can say more, Ilya is already sighing. “Plans change.”

Looking between us in disbelief, the girl begs. “What’s going on? I shouldn’t have touched you, but can’t you just let me go? You can have the coin back!”

“Of course, I didn’t say. We can help you get setup, in the guild with new clothes, gear, armour, and weapons for your chosen classes. Alternatively, you can run with the coin but given your clothing you’ll get accused of stealing. If you guide us around, we can ensure you get it changed into a safer mix. Would you like to choose, or should I toss another coin?”

The girl grinds her teeth and looks down at the coin clasped in her hand. “I’ll stay with you—for now.”

“Excellent. Oh, you’ve still not told me your name, or should I call you ‘hey you’? I’ve already renamed one individual recently so it’s someone else’s turn.”

“What did you call them?”

The memory of all the links I’d felt shatter within her tickle my insides, and the individual parts of her name come out in a mashed rush. “Thisspaceintentionallyleftblank. For a short name, I might call her Skank—or something—I’ve not decided.”

The baffled look on the girl makes me bark with laughter.

“Is that meant to be a Dragon’s name?” she asks after giving me a look like I’ve taken leave of my senses.

“No, it was a gag gift. I hope she doesn’t enjoy it,” I reply, and prompt her again to cough up a name.

Ossi is all I make out from the mutter, and the fib rings clear, but I’m hardly one to point fingers. “It seems we’re all using alternative names today. You can call me Rúsea, it’s Elven for wrathful,” I reply, before pointing at Ilya. “You can call her Tiror. It means guard.”

“Why are you doing this?” Ossi asks suspiciously.

“You won the coin toss. It’s your lucky day,”

Ossi’s suspicious expression says a lot. “What would you have done if I’d lost?”

“Given you a coin pouch and sent you on your way. Though frankly, having lots of wealth suddenly can cause trouble. Come along, don’t either of you get lost. Tell me if I take a wrong turn, Ossi. We need the Temple Square and then The Silver Chalice.”

The set upon tone in both their songs has me giggling softly, and I brush the merry tune into people we pass whose moods are grim and dark.

“Is she drunk?” whispers Ossi.

“She gets this way when there’s sunshine. Either that or Luck is pressing on her mind hard today,” replies Ilya, still resting her hand upon Ossi’s shoulder, though her grip rings far lighter now.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s a Priest of Luck, well Luck with a dose of Skill working together, but mostly Luck. Faith makes your brain wiggle oddly toward your focus’ needs once you get too many Priest levels I’ve found.”

“Thanks so much,” I say, turning a glare her way, and a falling tile goes straight through where I’d been about to step. The spray of its shattering was directed away from us and across surrounding pedestrians.

The sharp pained notes snuff out my amusement, and I shift songs instantly falling into Silent Song to avoid causing offense. The notes set a soft glow across them and leave them with opened mouths—gashes in flesh and clothes having sealed without a mark. “Fortune favour you all. Is everyone alright now?”

Surprise gives way to thanks, and it’s an experience I’ve not had in so long from strangers they make me blush. My cheerful mood only lasts until the surly guard at the next gate. He checks my chit and noting my entry waves me through. When Ossi goes to follow, he’s growling like an ill-tempered dog, and thrusts his hand out to block her path. “Get away with you lad, I’m not letting the likes of you through.”

“She’s with us, as our guide,” I protest, trying to keep a pleasant tone.

The guard shakes his head firmly. “I’m not letting her through. She can’t guide you in here. She’ll have never been inside from the looks of her.”

“In that case you should be ashamed since the temples are within. But my disgust aside, I’ve given her a coin and I insist she stay with me—when I want her help, I’m not tracking her down. I’ll get her cleaned up and properly clad, but suitable tailors—I’m sure—aren’t in the outer district.”

“Those fit enough for her kind are,” growls the guard with sour tones lacing his song.

“Those fit for my patronage aren’t. Now let her through,” I order and resist the temptation to make his dick stretch to the ground to aid his measuring it.

Ilya’s motion is subtle but draws his gaze to the mithril and gem-studded hilts at her waist. He carefully steps back from Ossi, his song torn between aggression and retreat. Ilya’s furious gaze sends shivers through his music and slays what confidence remains. “I’ll record you took a waif within; any crimes she commits you’ll be answering for as well.”

I have to love how he assumes I’d let her get caught. Maybe I should rob the Jarl’s strongroom. Hmm, has the Steward been skimming among the other misbehaviours?

Ossi waits until we’re well out of earshot before she says anything. “There are good tailors in the outer wards.”

“I’m sure there are Ossi, but never admit someone has a good point when you’re haggling,”

“That was haggling? It sounded like a threat. He’ll pass word around now, even if he didn’t want to confront you personally," warns Ossi. "The new Jarl’s Wizard is an Elf as well, so he'll not be so awe struck."

“Don’t people haggle that way here?”

Ossi glances back over her shoulder and lowers her voice despite the distance. “Not with guards.”

The Devils I’ve threatened come to mind, and I give her a shrug. “I just did.”

“That’s because you two are scary when you’re focused on someone. I thought you were airheaded Elves not paying attention.”

“We’re scary? I’m truly shocked,” snarks Ilya.

“I don’t think you’re shocked at all,” mutters Ossi, glancing again towards the gate.

“Sceptic,” I mutter while focusing on the guard’s mean song. The keen notes I heard throughout our interaction I silently sing in reverse to unravel the memory’s song.

Once done, I give her a smile and look ahead to the square. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine; obviously, you’re a lucky charm.”

“How?” asked Ossi,

“You won a coin toss, didn’t get hit by any tile shards, and gave me time to act,” I reply, and point a thumb back at the gate.

“Please don’t,” grumbles Ilya, and I find her giving me a sullen stare.

“The last lucky charm had fun,” I reassure the girl who's looking at Ilya in concern.

“Time to act, how?”

Ilya waves her off and gives her shoulder a light tap. “Likely safer not to know.”

“We passed by like ships in the night.” I offer helpfully while walking on, but my remark only raises confused notes amid Ossi’s song.

The square is exactly like the scrolls said: a crossroads surrounded by various temples, the centre of the space is filled with old trees that have lifted flagstones despite plenty of space, allowed for their growth. My first step within its boundary sets music thrumming underfoot. When I stop and listen to their song, it’s clear they wove the wards within the trees’ roots. Their life and the ground keeping them hidden from True Sight, but they’re like shivering webs. The chiming music shows they’re aware of our presence—but not alarmed by it—though I wonder how Amdirlain made them sound. Around the square behind their stylised fences I can hear the temples’ differing music, and despite the orderly feeling I head towards Týr’s symbol.

Two guards in chain hauberk are beside the gates and greet us without concern when it’s clear we’re approaching them. “What can Týr’s faithful assist you with travellers?”

“Would I please be able to speak to Priest Víðarr?”

“He’ll be leading the morning prayers. If you can enter, you might wait within or join them,” the nearest guard offers, not hiding his curiosity at Ossi’s presence with us.

“Never mind our guide. We’re likely going to sponsor her to the Adventurers’ Guild and get her a ton of training. Entering isn’t a problem, but I’m a Priest of another Faith,” I reply, and motion inside. “I’d prefer not to walk about Týr’s Temple unless a Priest knows I’m here, to avoid giving any insult.”

The guard’s unworried tone gains an edge of suspicion, and it’s clear I stepped wrong.

“Around the side is an area for receiving visiting Priests, those able to enter typically wait there,” the guard replies, without shifting his grip on shield and sword. “We’ll have someone let him know after prayers are complete, if you wait there.”

I smile instead of facepalm when pieces click into place.

“Oh no! No, I’m not involved with the Winter Court. That sounds fine, and the lack of invitation was cute. Do you get many vampires roaming about in daylight?” I tease and step through the gate. The orderly presence is suddenly stronger and while it wraps about me, it doesn’t crush down.

The place’s music stays orderly, though strangely kinder than I’d heard outside—stern, protective chords seasoned with a dash of compassion. The waiting area isn’t a simple hard bench but a covered gazebo with chairs and tables set beneath its roof. Inside the Temple’s primary structure, I can make out chants in Celestial praising Týr’s might and asking for guidance in bringing proper justice to the world. The effect igniting within their own song a fervent sense of duty and responsibility. Among the tempered notes comes the repetition of a repeated malignant and sour strain.

The morning prayers’ completion is obvious from the various individuals—armoured and unarmoured—that exit the Temple proper. It’s a half-hour or more after the service finishes that the same guard accompanies an armoured man with the dark sour notes scratching cruelly at his song. A helm nearly envelops his face with a solid plate across his eyes but leaves an opening enough for his braided beard to escape. When he turns in our direction, surprise soars within his music and wrests the pain to one side. Curious, I listen closer to the helm’s enchantments and realise among them is True Sight, rather than only providing him normal sight as I’d expected.

“Greetings to you both. Is the church of Týr able to assist the young girl with you?”

I give him a smile when he braces himself against our presence. “Víðarr, is it?”

“That’s correct, and how might I address you?” enquires Víðarr.

The introductions take only a few moments, but from his amused song, I can guess he knows every name is fake.

“Yes, we know they’re fake, and you know they’re fake, but isn’t it better than calling us late for dinner?”

Víðarr's laughter is rich, but the guard still seems taken aback.

“It’s alright, Ulf. They’ve freely entered Týr’s grounds and visitors from higher planes don’t always share names that give power. Thank you both for the honour of visiting. Since you’re not here seeking help for Ossi, then how might I assist?”

His explanation seems to go straight over Ossi’s head and I wonder at how basic her education must have been.

“I’m here to assist you, Víðarr, not seeking help; specifically, I’d like to help with your eyes.”

“Another once asked if I wished to be healed. I declined then and I’m not sure I’d answer differently today. She was kind enough to give me this gift,” Víðarr says, touching the helm’s visor. “It allows me to see more than I once did, and the continued blindness reminds me to not judge by appearance.”

“Though I understand your intent, the issue is not merely blindness, rather the pain souring you. Its pain continues to eat at you, and anyone can snap if left in pain long enough,” I say, and give Ilya’s hand a squeeze that doesn’t go unnoticed by Víðarr. “What aid I offer might not remove your blindness, but I can cleanse the curse left behind.”

“To ease the pain would be a blessing that I’d not turn away. It’s a mark of chaos though and opposes the blessings of Týr. Might I ask who you serve?” asks Víðarr and stops when I smile.

“I’m a Priest of Luck, not of any deity. Chaos is completely understandable to me. The curse is erratic and malicious, I’d hate to leave it gnawing at you.”

“Even the most skilled warrior needs luck,” admits Víðarr, and Ilya groans beside me.

Giving a pout at her sour tone, I turn back to Víðarr again. “It’s actually a facet of Luck I worship when Skill and Luck go hand in hand.”

The power of the curse isn’t something I’ll need True Song to oppose. Instead, I draw out my Divine Focus, and give Víðarr another smile. “May I remove that curse?”

“What would you want in return?”

“Why didn’t you name who sent you the helm before?”

“It might be rude to my Liege to name another in his hall that wasn’t of his kin,” replies Víðarr.

“Fair point. I have no way of knowing, Luck isn’t worried about competition in her places of worship, so I’ve never learned those rules. The one who organised your helm helped us also, and she didn’t ask for anything in return. I’m looking to clear old regrets on her behalf,” I reply quickly, enjoying the pleased notes that light up his song.

“Livia’s móðir regretted not helping me?” asks Víðarr. “Her forgiveness is still surprising, considering the way I treated her when we first met.”

“Her old appearance unsettled you—her new appearance totally threw us. She respected your decision but didn’t like to leave it that way. I won’t try a lesser Blessing, I’m sure it’s had plenty of ‘Remove Curse’ thrown at it, and the curse has festered in you long enough.”

Luck’s music rushes through me even before the first Celestial inflection dissolves in the air. The Blessing’s dancing notes weaving a counterpoint to the curse’s erratic notes and in its presence the curse finds every hand it plays called short. The sickly melody mutes a single note at a time before, in a rush of ill-placed bets, the rest fall silent. By the time I finish, his solid song has already reached a calmer state. The music’s tempo, no longer unbalanced, still misses an odd beat showing it has more settling to do.

The sigh of relief Víðarr gives seems to come up from the bottom of his boots. “You have my thanks. I didn’t realise how bad it had gotten until it was gone. It’s like an ogre’s grip is no longer clamped about my head.”

He lifts the helm away, and it’s obvious he won’t be seeing normally without more blessings. Cataracts muddy his irises—leaving them white—with only the slightest hint of colour showing that they might once have been brown or perhaps hazel. With it no longer obscuring his face, the lines of pain etched around his eyes are clear on his pale skin. The tight braids in his beard show a careful touch and carry the hint of tenderness within them.

“I can’t see even a hint of light, but the pain is gone,” admits Víðarr.

“The curse has dissolved, but your body is still settling. If your sight doesn’t return, at least there is nothing stopping another’s Blessing from restoring sight now.”

Víðarr pauses and rubs a hand across his bearded face before he re-secures the helm. “Will you be in town long?”

“Her plans always change,” cautions Ilya, and my helpless shrug draws a laugh from all, though Ossi’s laughter is fragile and uncertain.

“Don’t worry dear, we’ll get you some clothing, and sort something out for you. You’ve still not told me your age.”

“Fourteen,” Ossi offers after counting on her fingers.

“You really want to join the Adventurers’ Guild at your age?”

“It’s better than the other options I have with no apprentice spots left. My uncle’s children grew enough to take over the chores. New farms have his hemmed in so there isn’t room to expand.”

“Do you plan to take Ossi with you?” asks Víðarr.

“That depends. Ossi’s local and she’s not found help. I know places where I could see to it she’d prosper if she didn’t want to travel with us,” I reply.

“The Daughters have been busy with a mass of freed slaves; I doubt they’ll have time to look beyond the crowd of them soon,” Víðarr says and looks at Ossi contemplatively. “My wife has recently had twins, and we’ve older children, so another helping won’t go astray. If you’d like, it will give you years to find your feet and hone your skills if you’re set on being an Adventurer once you’re of age.”

Ilya looks at Víðarr intently, quite a change to her protest about adopting Ossi. “You didn’t ask what classes she has?”

“I sense no mark of judgement on her, as long as she doesn’t go getting into trouble within town, they’re her business,” replies Víðarr.

“Where are you planning to go?” asks Ossi, the indecision clear on her face.

“We’d likely be on other worlds or elemental planes. Though we could find you an apprentice position in another town or pay someone to help you train and get you the gear I offered.”

“Worlds? Planes?” Ossi swallows. Her words are barely a whisper with the realisation that her entire existence is in such a little bucket. “How would I know I’d be safe?”

The question itself is an answer with the uncertainty of that much adventure finding root.

“That’s what a geas is for, so they’d have no choice but to treat you well. I’ll not blindly trust a stranger with your safety,” I reply, and Ossi glances at Víðarr again.

The quick glance is enough, and Víðarr offer advice like her song sought. “So you know, our household is mixed faith, though most don’t expect it from a Priest. My wife Gellamel is a follower of Mielikki, and our eldest girl is studying her ways. If you’re not inclined towards Týr’s teachings, it’s enough that you’re respectful.”

I can hear the fear and uncertainty tripping through her song. She mentioned an uncle and a farm, but her clothing still holds the chill notes of a night slept in the open—or an alley.

“You’ve nowhere to go, but you don’t trust us enough to travel with us, is that it? Tales of Elves playing tricks, perhaps?”

“My father worked a few days’ walk from Eyrarháls,” Ossi says softly and stops, her song swimming in uncertainty, and uncomfortable memories.

“You’ve lost your family, been alone on the road before, rejected by your uncle after working for him, and you’re not inclined to risk more abandonment. It’s your choice, Ossi. If you stay, I’ll have to weigh you down so you can’t run fast.”

My words recounting the tale of her song brings forth a look of exposed shock. The pouches I set on the stone table make a jangle of clinking gold and silver noise, that has her mouth agape and blinking rapidly.

“How much did the Dwarves lose to you in side bets?” asks Ilya, and I realise she missed most of the fun.

“Lots,” I purr happily, not saying how much I’ve left in Inventory, and his wife’s name finally rings a bell. “You married the pregnant lady that Amdirlain rescued from the Dragon cultist?”

I clasp a hand to my mouth too late, but there isn’t any Divine retribution in sight.

Ilya gives me an amused look. “Seems he’s fine with naming her in his hall—at least by you.”

Víðarr seems unfussed by my surprise and gives Ilya a grin for teasing me. “Our eldest is a fine lad who takes after his mother. I couldn’t be prouder of the man he’s becoming.”

Ilya doesn’t get what he means, but I can’t stop smiling at the glorious music I hear around Víðarr. “Family isn’t always about blood, is it?”

“Indeed, it isn’t,” Víðarr responds.

“I wish good fortune bless you and your family.”

The pulse of power within the miracle Blessing that rings forth makes Víðarr start and Ilya sighs. Ossi and the guard both go wide-eyed and stare at me like I’ve grown a second head.