The night sky was still, save for the twinkling stars that danced quietly above. The moon's bright light cast a gentle glow over the road and the surrounding landscape. Kira had fallen asleep, resting her head on Lily's shoulder. Lily sat with her arms crossed, fully alert and watchful of their surroundings. Francisco fought against the pull of sleep, determined to maintain the spell he had cast upon himself and Kira. His eyes felt heavy, weighed down by the tender veil of exhaustion.
Francisco glanced over at Diomede, who hadn't moved since his sudden awakening from the nightmare.
"Say, my friend, does your mind still linger on your nightmare?" Francisco asked softly.
Diomede turned his head toward the Nesfundur and, sitting up, gave an expression that confirmed Francisco's question.
"My… nightmare was of something I thought I had buried long ago," he said, his voice drained of emotion. "It seems my recent actions have awakened old demons from my past."
Francisco stroked his nonexistent beard thoughtfully. "Well, my friend, I am struggling to stay awake and am in need of something to do." He then turned to his bag and began digging.
Diomede watched with growing curiosity. The bard glanced toward the front, where Gareld and Clayton sat. The two remained facing forward, engrossed in conversation—though it was mostly Gareld speaking, and Clayton doing his best to fend off sleep's gentle grasp.
Finally, Francisco pulled out a long stringed instrument—a viola, dark brown in color, adorned with delicate carvings of woodland creatures running along the neck and base. The fine strings caught the moonlight, shimmering like silver silk.
"I have a feeling this may be to your liking," Francisco said as he adjusted his posture and prepared to play.
Diomede's gaze rested on the viola with a heavy heart. It had been far too long since he had last seen such an instrument.
"Now, for this one time only, I shall grant you a free request—play whatever you wish," Francisco said joyfully.
Diomede broke his gaze from the viola and stared out across the open plains of grass. The wind swept over the blades, making them dance and ripple like a sea of green. A single song came to mind—one he had longed to hear for years.
"My friend, if you can play it, I would wish with all that I am to hear 'Bell's Memory,'" Diomede said softly.
Francisco's brow rose so high that his magical image shimmered with anticipation. "If that is what you wish to hear, then I gratefully accept your request."
He took a deep breath and stilled his mind, focusing on nothing but the very first stroke of the bow. His body became as still as a statue. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he began.
The first note rang out—a long, slow draw along the strings—followed by a low, haunting second. Diomede, captivated by the music, felt his body grow light as air. Memories of simpler times flooded his mind, and images of her came alive.
Francisco continued, the notes and his voice weaving a melody both sorrowful and hopeful. Each passing phrase drew in Clayton and Gareld as well. Clayton felt his heart wane and glanced over at the old man. Tears slid down Gareld's weathered face; he turned away and wiped at his eyes, but the tears remained.
Clayton looked back to Francisco playing—the Nesfundur bard, though in the guise of an elderly man, also had tears tracing down his cheeks.
Diomede breathed in the fresh scent of spring flowers carried on the breeze. He could almost feel the soft wind brushing his skin, the same breeze that had once stirred the grass where he and Her lay together.
A restless movement beside him stirred Kira awake. She blinked to see everyone listening intently to Francisco's song. Even Randy, the horse, had slowed his pace, as if caught by the melody.
Kira felt the swirl of emotions around her—heavy, yes, but also touched with an unexpected warmth and joy.
When the song reached its highest, most poignant note, her attention sharpened. Her eyes widened, her heart lifted, as if the music itself was about to carry her away.
Francisco struck the final notes, lingering on the last string with care. All fell silent—as if the world itself had stopped just to listen.
Diomede placed his hand gently on Francisco's knee, giving it a slight squeeze. "Thank you, my friend. I haven't heard that song in a very long time."
Francisco bowed his head modestly. "I could tell. Not many remember such a song, and those who do... well, they can never forget it."
Lily nudged Francisco's foot playfully. "What was that song, bard?"
Francisco, while packing his things back into his bag, replied, "That, my dear, was called 'Bell's Memory.' I played it at the request of our large friend here."
Lily looked toward Diomede, who had turned his back to everyone and sat on the edge of the wagon with his legs dangling off the back. "Why was it so sad sounding?" she asked.
Francisco pulled out his pipe and began tapping it thoughtfully against the side of the wagon. "It sounds that way because the man who wrote it did so for his wife."
Lily and Kira's attention locked on Francisco, while Clayton even turned to listen more closely.
"His wife? Did she die or something?" Lily asked.
"Yes and no," Francisco replied with a knowing smile.
Lily's face twisted in confusion, prompting Francisco to chuckle. "It's said he wrote it because he fell so deeply in love with her the moment he saw her. He lived their whole lifetime in an instant."
"Then why does it sound sad?" Lily pressed.
"Because her husband knew he would outlive her. So when he wrote the song, he captured that sorrow," Francisco explained, lighting his pipe and drawing deep puffs. "But there was hope and joy too—for the time they did get to spend together."
Kira sat up and gently placed her hand on Diomede's shoulder. Diomede tapped the top of her hand in quiet reassurance.
Gareld looked back at the group. "I gotta say, it's been a long time since I've seen a group as close as you lot."
Clayton turned his attention to the driver and then glanced around the wagon. Each person was close to another, though they'd only been together for a short while. His gaze drifted ahead into the dark that blanketed the road.
It was then that the faint, acrid smell of burning wood reached his nose.
Ah, I think I can smell the evening roast cooking," Clayton said, peering into the darkness as if trying to catch a glimpse of their destination. He strained his eyes until small flickers of flame danced far ahead.
"There," Clayton said, pointing toward the faint light.
Gareld leaned forward to see where Clayton was indicating. "Well, I'll be—you've got some eyesight there, boy," he chuckled as the wagon crested the hilltop.
Kira noticed the wave of relief rolling off the front of the wagon and nudged Diomede.
He turned and met her eye signaling toward the front of the wagon. His gaze caught the fire's light in the distance.
Diomede turned to Francisco, "How are you holding up, my scaly friend?"
Diomede looked over at Francisco. "I'm fine for now, but the hand of sleep is creeping in. We need to reach our resting place soon," Francisco whispered back.
The wagon rolled closer to Fungal Grove, and the endless sea of grass gave way to sprawling farm fields. Moonlight glinted off vast patches of mushrooms and small crops, stretching wide even under the night sky. Randy slowed and came to a halt just at the village entrance.
"All right, from here you'll have to make your way over to the large house over there," Gareld said, pointing toward a well-lit structure.
The group climbed down and gathered before the village's welcome sign.
"We thank you, my friend. I can compensate you," Diomede said as he turned to Gareld.
"Oh I wouldn't think of it sir. It was my pleasure to, after all if y'all hadn't helped with my overturned wagon, I would still be out there" Gareld replied cheerfully. With a snap of the reins, Randy trotted off, and Gareld waved as the wagon disappeared around a corner.
The group turned and passed beneath a large mushroom-shaped arch marking the village entrance.
"This place seems quite nice," Francisco remarked as they neared the house Gareld had indicated. Its roof was dark brown, the walls a soft beige, and a spacious porch stretched across the front—big enough to fit six chairs comfortably.
Diomede stepped onto the porch, the wood creaking softly beneath his weight. Kira, Lily, and Francisco followed, settling beside him.
Clayton scanned their surroundings—quiet and still. But beneath the calm, a strange sensation washed over him—not danger, but the watchful gaze of an unknown presence.
Clayton peered into the shadows, trying to catch any sign of movement.
"ERIC!" Diomede called sharply. "Come, we will rest for the night."
Clayton turned and climbed the porch steps. At the top, he was met by an older woman whose sharp eyes seemed to miss nothing. Streaks of gray ran through her thick black hair, and a soft green scarf was wrapped loosely around her shoulders. Her dark purple dress bore intricate flower patterns along the hem—worn but well cared for.
"What's all this ruckus? We were just settling in for the night," she said, voice tinged with a mixture of fatigue and authority, as if she was used to managing disruptions on her terms.
"My apologies, ma'am," Francisco said with a charming, if slightly theatrical, bow. "We arrived with a wagon driven by Gareld Layer."
The woman's nose wrinkled in skepticism. "And what does that have to do with me?"
"Well, we find ourselves in need of a place to rest," Francisco explained, eyes glinting with a subtle plea.
Her gaze swept over the group, scrutinizing them carefully, weighing every detail as if sizing up a puzzle she was determined to solve. "Why should I open my doors to strangers? Especially ones who haven't even introduced themselves."
Francisco's bow deepened, his head nearly touching the wooden floor. "How remiss of me! I am Robert Murkwood, and this is my son, Sir Eithen Murkwood." He gestured toward Diomede, then to Kira, still bearing the form of a young, dark-skinned woman with black hair tied in a bun. "And this is his daughter, my granddaughter, Susan Murkwood."
The woman raised a sharply arched brow at Diomede and Kira. "Granddaughter?" She asked with a hint of suspicion.
Francisco smiled, his voice softening with pride.
"And these two?" she asked, nodding toward Clayton and Lily.
"Oh yes," Francisco said, "this is my son's squire, Eric Murk, and his wife, Mary Murk."
Lady Jillian's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression tightening.
"They are distant cousins," Francisco hurried to clarify.
After a long moment, her eyes softened slightly, and she sighed. "Fine. You may rest here. I'm no stranger to travelers passing through—and I won't turn away those in need in the middle of the night."
She opened the heavy door to the house. Warmth spilled out like a gentle tide, wrapping the group in the scent of baked sweets mingled with smoky pine from a nearby fire.
"I'm Lady Jillian Walters," she said, her voice now softer but still commanding. "Welcome to the Tea Cup House."
Inside, a grand staircase of twisted root wood spiraled upward like a living thing. Across from it, a large stone fireplace roared, casting dancing orange light that painted flickering shadows across the walls.
Mrs. Walters moved with quiet authority as she led them further inside, her heels clicking softly on the well-worn floorboards. "You three will have the large room at the top of the stairs. Best beds in the house—soft as clouds, they say, but firm enough to hold a restless soul."
Diomede, Francisco, and Kira followed her in single file, their footsteps hushed in the warm stillness. They replied in unison, "Yes, ma'am."
Clayton and Lily lingered behind, watching as the others ascended the staircase.
Mrs. Walters turned toward them and pointed to a door across from the fireplace. "And you two will sleep there."
The two walked slowly over, feeling the warmth from the fire at their backs, while Mrs. Walters' watchful gaze followed their every step.
As the doors closed in unison behind the groups' entrances, a heavy, collective sigh of relief rippled through the house — a quiet moment of peace after the long day.