He chuckled, the wheeze less painful now. "Dead sober. You know the people and the rules in this village. Please help me not scare everyone away."
The flattery landed. Nia relaxed, studying him.
"The harvest festival's coming. We'll need hands at the tavern. Serve drinks, clean tables, don't terrify anyone. Think you can handle it?"
"I'll try to be… less alarming," Jace said, though he had no plan.
Nia's expression softened. "Wart, you can change how you act, but…" She gestured at his face. "That's a challenge."
"My face's quest to redefine 'ugly'?" he quipped.
She almost smiled again. "I meant your situation. If you're serious, you've got a shot. It'll take work."
She extended a hand, not to touch, but to signal a truce. "Deal?"
"Deal," Jace said, nodding. "Thanks, Nia."
---
[QUEST COMPLETED: "First Spark of Charm"]
[Rewards: 10 Charm Points + Skill: "Wry Quip"]
[Wry Quip: +5% chance to defuse tension with humor. Cost]
[Current Charm Points: 10]
---
Jace grinned, or tried to.
******
The harvest festival turned the village into a riot of color and chaos. Red and gold banners fluttered, the air thick with roasted boar and sweet cider. For a moment, Jace, could almost forget his ugly features.
The Rusty Goblet was a battlefield, packed with festival-goers tossing coins and laughter like confetti. Jace weaved through the crowd, his lumpy body dodging drunks with surprising ease. People leaned away from him, creating a handy bubble of space. He'd served dozens without disaster, though one merchant's wife nearly fainted at his reflection. Progress, he thought, is generous.
Nia darted between bar and kitchen, her braid tamed by a festive ribbon, her cheeks flushed from the pace. "Table seven, more ale!" she shouted.
Jace nodded, balancing a tray of mugs. and bards steering the mood of people with their songs. Each interaction was a lesson for his mission.
Then the tavern's vibe shifted, like a storm rolling in. Conversations fell silent as a newcomer entered—Dren Holt, golden-haired and chiseled, his doublet screaming wealth. He was everything Wart wasn't, and his eyes locked on Nia like a hawk spotting a rabbit.
"Good afternoon, fair lady," Dren said, his voice smooth as silk. "Dren Holt. I've been robbed of your acquaintance too long."
Nia's professional mask stayed firm. "Nia Kell. Drink?"
"Your attention," Dren purred, leaning on the bar. "Rumors of the village's loveliest barmaid don't do you justice."
Jace cringed. The line was his old playbook, but it was all wrong for Nia, whose jaw tightened. "What'll you drink?" she said coolly.
"Something to share?" Dren pressed, undeterred.
"I'm working," Nia shot back, sidestepping him.
Dren leaned closer. "A beauty like you shouldn't slave for peasants. I could show you elegance; estates, a real life."
"I'm fine here," Nia said, dodging again.
Dren grabbed her wrist, his grip light but firm. "Just one—"
"She told you to back off," Jace cut in, his voice slicing through the din. The tavern froze, eyes on him.
Dren turned, sneering. "Did… that speak to me?"
"Your hair oil clog your ears?" Jace said, setting down his tray. "She said no."
The crowd gasped, some stifling laughs. Dren's face reddened, his hand twitching toward his dagger. "You deformed wretch, I'll have you whipped!"
"And I'll sell tickets to watch you bomb at basic manners," Jace fired back.
The tension spiked, Dren's fingers on his dagger. Before it could escalate, the door slammed open. Five guards in gleaming mail marched in, followed by a hooded figure radiating silent menace. The figure pointed at Jace and Dren, then turned and left.
"You two," a guard barked. "Move."
Dren sputtered, "This is absurd! I'm Dren Holt, son of—"
"Now," the guard snapped.
Jace glanced at Nia, her face a mix of worry and shock. "Nia, thanks for the shot. I'll—"
"Move," the guard growled, shoving him out.
The carriage outside was no prison wagon, it was a rolling palace, black wood gleaming with gold filigree, silver-rimmed wheels sparkling. Four sleek horses stood proud, like they knew they served royalty.
"Well," Jace muttered as guards waved them in, "this is fancy."
Inside, burgundy velvet seats swallowed his lumpy frame, he could see the world in crisp detail through the glass windows. The hooded figure sat silently, their presence heavy as a drawn blade.
Dren flopped down, ranting. "This is an outrage! I'm Dren Holt, heir to trade networks, diplomatic immunity! My father will—"
Jace tuned him out, eyes on the window. The village's cobblestone streets gave way to farms and orchards, magical lanterns glowing in doorways. The festival buzzed with smoke, music, and life far from Earth's gray routine. His chest stirred; this world was raw, alive.
"You listening?" Dren snapped. "We're in this mess together!"
"Just shut it," Jace snapped, watching estates and gardens replace farms. The road smoothed to polished stone, and a palace loomed; gray stone towers piercing the sky, courtyards bursting with geometric gardens.
"Gods," Dren whispered. "The royal palace."
They passed iron gates and sharp-eyed guards, entering a palace of marble columns, sunlit windows, and battle-painted walls. They wound through grand halls to massive doors radiating power.
"His Majesty's waiting," a guard said, voice like thunder.
The doors opened to a vast throne room, a king on a black-and-silver throne, his presence a brewing storm. Jace's lips quirked. "Showtime."
Jace shuffled across the throne room's polished floor, his wart-covered body a sore thumb among marble and grandeur. The king, fifties with steel-gray hair, lounged on his throne, radiating authority like a storm cloud. The room was huge but intimate, like the king had dialed back the pomp to toy with them.
Nobles in silks stood left, the hooded figure among them, face still hidden. Advisors in plain robes watched right, sharp as knives. Four others stood before the throne: a grizzled mercenary, a scholarly mage, a polished noble, and a sharp-eyed woman with auburn hair and a rogue's edge.
Guards nudged Jace and Dren into line, making six. The hooded figure nodded to the king—game on.
The king stood, his voice booming. "Lords, ladies, friends, welcome to a day that'll echo in history."