The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a small wood stove. Sahir lay on a low cot, bandaged and still, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible under a worn blanket. Outside, city sounds drifted through shuttered windows — carts, calls, distant gulls.
Ashem sat slouched in a faded chair, head heavy. He blinked slowly, confusion settling like dust. The last thing he remembered was Kharan's hand raised — and then nothing.
His fingers twitched. Something crinkled. The scroll.
He stared at it, still in his hand. For a second, hope fluttered in his chest. A treasure map, maybe. A scripture from some lost civilization. He unrolled it quickly.
Then froze.
It was a pamphlet.
Thick paper, printed ink, bright pigments faded from sun and wear. The name of a tavern was stamped across the front in ornate, slightly smudged letters:
The Seventh.
Beneath the name was an illustration — a lively crowd, mugs raised, a bard on a table with a stringed instrument in hand. At the bottom corner, scrawled in thin ink, was a strange symbol — two mirrored arcs threaded by a wave.
Ashem frowned. He turned the paper over. Nothing.
His breath caught. Was this some kind of joke?
He reached for his coat, heart suddenly hammering, and patted the inner pocket.
Empty.
The artifact was gone.
"No, no, no — " he muttered, standing quickly, pacing in a tight circle. "He swapped it. I didn't even see — damn it, I didn't even see him move."
For a heartbeat, he considered storming back to Kharan's. But the memory of those eyes behind the veil, that silence thick as iron, stopped him cold.
What could I possibly do?
He looked again at the pamphlet.
Why this? Why leave me with this?
He stared at the strange symbol in the corner — elegant, subtle, intentional. Not part of the tavern's branding. A personal mark.
He exhaled slowly, forced his shoulders to lower, and himself to trust.
He folded the pamphlet and tucked it into his belt, then turned toward the small door that led to the sleeping room.
"Nareen?" he called gently, knocking once. No answer.
He opened the door.
Empty.
No mattress, no packs, no sign of his wife or daughter. A tight chill spread through his chest. "Nareen?"
He turned, ready to sprint into the street — when he spotted Sahir stirring on the cot. The older man groaned, pushing himself slowly upright, face pale and damp with sweat.
"Sahir," Ashem breathed, rushing over. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I lost a fight to a butcher," Sahir muttered. He winced as he adjusted the blanket. "But I'm breathing. Thanks to your friend."
"Tameru?"
Sahir nodded. "Said you might be back soon. Left Nareen and the little girl in an old hag's place, common friend turns out. Two blocks north."
Ashem blinked. "Your wife?"
Sahir coughed out a dry laugh. "She has a house near the plaza. Safer there. Tameru thought they shouldn't stay here while I recover."
Ashem stepped back, heart still settling. "Why didn't you go?"
"Let's say moving is not very pleasing for me right now." said Sahir with a crooked smile.
Ashem nodded once. "Rest. I'll go to them."
Sahir leaned back, eyes closing. "So you met Kharan, isn't she a charm?"
Ashem opened the door. "Something like that."
The evening fog settled low over the streets, curling around the cobblestones like lazy smoke. Ashem walked with his hood up, hand resting on the folded pamphlet tucked in his belt, eyes scanning every sign, every alley, every doorway.
The Seventh wasn't marked on any map. But the streets whispered.
He followed lantern-lit music, drifting and thin at first — almost imagined — until it thickened, louder, warmer, pulling him into a narrow side street that bent like a question mark. At its curve stood an old brick building with stained glass windows that pulsed with flickering amber light.
The sign above the crooked door read:
The Seventh: Spirits, Stories, and Strings.
Inside, the tavern was alive.
Lanterns swayed from beams wrapped in trailing vines. The scent of honeyed mead and roasted roots filled the air. Every table buzzed with conversation — traders, dockhands, students, robed figures, even a few hooded ones like him. The ceiling sloped low on one side, carved with strange glyphs Ashem didn't recognize.
He slipped in quietly and took a seat near the back, half-shadowed, surveying the room. No sign of the artifact. No sign of Kharan's work. So why here?
A server passed by and nodded. "First time?"
Ashem nodded back.
"You should wait for the show," the server said, and was gone.
Ashem had just begun nursing a mug of spiced ale when a gentle hush fell over the tavern. A single stringed note floated from a corner — low, soft, and aching with memory.
He turned.
On a small platform near the hearth stood a slight figure dressed in patchy sailor's garb — loose linen shirt, short vest, cropped trousers tucked into boots curled at the toe. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed most of their face, and they held a narrow wooden instrument across their chest like a lover's embrace.
The second note struck. Then a third. Then — melody.
A slow tune began, wordless and humming, and something shifted in the room. Conversations dwindled. Heads turned. The bard began to sing — not with grandeur, but with quiet honesty, the kind that wraps around your ribs.
Others joined in — at first humming, then forming the lyrics in soft unison. The tempo lifted, then soared. The bard stepped from the platform, playing as they moved through the tavern, weaving between chairs with dancer's grace.
Feet tapped. Tankards lifted. Voices grew.
When the chorus hit, the tavern erupted. Laughter, cheers, mugs raised and clashed, strangers pulling strangers into wide, spinning dances. The bard spun, boots skimming the floor. And as they turned, their sleeve lifted — just for a moment.
Ashem's breath caught.
There. On their inner forearm, half-concealed by cloth, was a symbol. Two mirrored arcs threaded by a wave.