Garrick chose a side room away from the common space, where the noise from the inn softened without fully disappearing. Laughter reached it only in fragments, dulled by walls that had never been meant to hold attention. It wasn't private so much as overlooked—used when it needed to be, ignored when it didn't. Rain tapped against the narrow window in a steady rhythm that refused to be helpful.
He set his lute aside carefully, then turned to face me with an expression that was earnest enough to be disarming.
"Before we begin," he said, "I should probably ask why."
"Why?" I echoed.
"Why you want instruction," he clarified. "Most people come to me because they want to perform. Or because they think it looks easy." A faint smile. "It usually isn't."
I hesitated.
"I'm a bard," I said finally.
Garrick blinked.
Once.
Then again, slower this time.
"Oh," he said. "Well—yes, that would explain it."
Relief flickered across his face, immediately followed by something else. Confusion, creeping in around the edges.
"…although," he added carefully, "forgive me, but bards usually come with at least some familiarity. An instrument. Singing. Storytelling. Something."
I gestured vaguely at myself.
"That's the problem."
His brow furrowed. "You… don't sing?"
"No."
"Play?"
"Not competently."
"Recite?"
"I can talk," I said. "Sometimes."
He studied me in silence, the way an actor studies a scene that doesn't quite make sense yet.
"And yet," he said slowly, "you are a bard."
"Yes."
"By training?"
"No."
"By inclination?"
"I don't think so."
"By choice?"
I hesitated.
"…that's complicated."
Garrick leaned back in his chair, visibly recalibrating. "Then how, exactly—"
"My companions think I am," I said.
That stopped him.
"They think you are."
"Yes."
"And you are not?"
"I am," I said. "Apparently."
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"So," he said, very carefully now, "you are traveling with people who believe you possess a skillset you do not."
"Correct."
"And you would like to acquire that skillset," he said, "before the discrepancy becomes… noticeable."
"That would be ideal."
Silence settled between us, thick and puzzled.
Garrick let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, just genuinely baffled. "That's… not how that usually works."
"I know."
"How does that usually work for you?"
I stared at the table.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "This is the first time."
That earned me another look—this one thoughtful rather than confused.
"Well," he said at last, "that explains a great deal."
He stood, pacing once across the small room, hands moving as though arranging invisible props. "Alright. Then we begin with something simple."
He stopped in front of me.
"Stand."
I did.
"Don't do anything yet," he said quickly. "Just… stand."
I waited.
"You're apologizing," Garrick said.
"I haven't said anything."
"With your shoulders," he clarified. "They're pulled in. You're shrinking."
"I'm not trying to."
"I know." He smiled faintly. "Most people don't."
He circled me once, slow and considerate. "A bard isn't a musician first," he said. "That surprises people. Music is a tool. Voice is a tool. The point is presence."
"Presence," I repeated.
"Yes." He stopped in front of me again. "When you enter a room, what do you expect from it?"
I thought about ambushes. About thresholds and sightlines. About how often rooms had taught me to anticipate danger before comfort.
"Very little," I said.
Garrick winced. "There it is."
"That's bad?"
"It's survivable," he said kindly. "But it's not performative."
He stepped back. "Let's try something."
He gestured toward the door. "Leave the room."
I frowned but complied, stepping out into the hall. The rain was louder here, echoing faintly through the inn.
"Now come back in," Garrick called. "And don't apologize for existing."
I stared at the door.
In another life, this would have been easy. In another world, I would have known exactly what was expected of me. Here, I had been handed a role without instructions and told the audience was already watching.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Garrick tilted his head.
"Better," he said. "Still cautious. But better."
"That was better?"
"Yes." He smiled. "You didn't flinch."
"I didn't know I flinched."
"You do," he said. "Often."
I exhaled slowly.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, an invisible interface refused to appear. No notification. No progress bar. No reassuring chime.
Just a man with a lute, asking me to stand up straight and mean it.
Garrick clapped his hands once, satisfied. "Good," he said. "Now we work."
Garrick watched me for a moment longer, then nodded as if confirming a suspicion he'd already formed.
"Good," he said. "Now we add a voice."
I stiffened despite myself.
"Not singing," he added quickly. "Speaking."
"That's not better."
He smiled, sympathetic. "It's worse for different reasons."
He pulled one of the chairs back and turned it so it faced the empty wall rather than the table. "Sit. Not because you're tired. Because I want your body to stop preparing to leave."
I sat.
"Tell me something true," he said. "Nothing important. Something small."
I waited for instructions that didn't come.
"About the rain," he suggested. "Or the road. Or this room."
I glanced at the window. At the narrow slice of gray beyond it. "The rain makes everything quieter," I said. "But not calmer."
Garrick's brows lifted slightly. "Good. Again."
I repeated it.
"Slower," he said. "Don't rush past the thought like it might hurt you."
I tried again, forcing myself to let the words sit in my mouth before releasing them.
"The rain makes everything quieter," I said. "But not calmer."
He tilted his head. "Better. Now say it like you expect someone to listen."
That caught me.
"I am saying it like that."
"No," he said gently. "You're saying it like you're leaving room for interruption."
I frowned. "Is that bad?"
"It's polite," he said. "It's also how people stop listening."
He stood and moved a few steps away, placing himself near the door. "Say it to me. As if I'm already paying attention."
I took a breath.
In the back of my mind, something flickered—an expectation that a prompt would appear, or a stat would tick upward, or a success condition would clarify itself.
Nothing did.
I spoke anyway.
"The rain makes everything quieter," I said. "But not calmer."
Garrick didn't respond immediately.
He just watched.
Then he nodded. "There," he said. "That one stayed."
I exhaled, tension easing despite myself. "So… louder?"
"No," he said. "More certain."
He returned to the table and sat across from me, folding his hands. "A bard doesn't convince people by force. We convince them by behaving as though what we're saying is already worth their time."
I thought of every room I'd entered assuming it wasn't.
"That feels dishonest," I said.
Garrick considered that. "It can be," he said. "But so can hiding."
That landed harder than I expected.
He leaned back, studying me again—not critically, but with the careful interest of someone adjusting a performance beat by beat.
"You're very good at surviving," he said. "You've trained yourself to minimize impact. To pass through spaces without leaving marks."
"That's been useful."
"I believe you," he said. "But performance is the opposite skill."
I nodded slowly.
Somewhere deep in my awareness, the idea formed—not as a joke, but as a quiet frustration—that whatever system had decided I was a bard had done so without explaining the prerequisites.
No tutorial. No warning.
Just an assumption, and the expectation that I'd catch up.
Garrick smiled suddenly, catching the direction of my thoughts without knowing their cause. "You look like someone who's just realized the rules were written somewhere else."
I laughed despite myself.
"Is it that obvious?"
"To me?" He shrugged. "Yes."
He stood again. "Good. That means we're in the right place."
He gestured toward the door. "Next, we try this where someone might hear."
I followed his gaze, pulse ticking up a notch.
Outside the room, the inn continued to exist. Voices. Footsteps. Life pressing close.
I swallowed.
"That's still part of today?" I asked.
Garrick grinned, kind and entirely unconcerned with my discomfort. "Of course," he said. "Instruction only matters where it's tested."
I was halfway through repeating the line again—still adjusting the shape of it, still deciding how much certainty I was allowed—when Garrick's attention shifted.
Not dramatically. Just a flick of his eyes toward the door.
I didn't notice at first.
"The rain makes everything quieter," I said, slower now. "But not calmer."
I felt it then—the subtle wrongness of speaking into a space that no longer belonged only to us.
A pause in the hall. Footsteps that didn't continue.
I stopped.
Garrick didn't.
"Finish it," he said quietly. Not urgent. Not alarmed. Just steady.
I hesitated, every instinct urging me to lower my voice, to retreat into neutrality, to let the moment pass without leaving a mark.
"The rain makes everything quieter," I said again. "But not calmer."
Silence followed.
Not the private kind.
Garrick turned slightly, angling his body just enough that I could see past him.
The door was ajar. Only a fraction. Enough.
A woman stood in the hallway, one hand resting on the frame as if she'd stopped only for balance. She wasn't looking at me directly—her gaze hovered somewhere near my shoulder, polite, uncertain. Listening, but trying not to be caught doing so.
"Oh," she said softly, realizing we'd noticed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's alright," Garrick said easily, already smoothing the shape of the moment. "We're not finished yet."
She blinked at that, surprised.
"I just—" She gestured vaguely behind her. "I thought someone was telling a story."
I swallowed.
"No," I said, instinctively. Too quickly. "Just talking."
Garrick's head tilted toward me. Not correction. Reminder.
The woman nodded anyway, offering a small, embarrassed smile. "Well," she said, "it sounded like one."
She stepped away, footsteps resuming, the moment dissolving as quickly as it had formed.
The door closed.
I stood there, pulse louder than the rain.
"I didn't mean for that to happen," I said.
Garrick considered me for a moment. "I know."
"That wasn't—"
"I know," he repeated. "But it did."
I let out a slow breath. "She thought I was telling a story."
"Yes."
"I wasn't."
"No," he agreed. "You were meaning something out loud."
I frowned. "There's a difference?"
"To you," he said gently. "Not always to the listener."
That settled somewhere uncomfortable.
I had spoken without intending to be heard—and someone had heard anyway. Not because I was loud. Not because I was skilled.
Because I hadn't hidden enough.
Garrick stepped closer, lowering his voice—not to make it secret, but to bring the moment back under control.
"This is the part most people miss," he said. "Presence creates meaning whether you ask it to or not."
I nodded slowly.
In the back of my mind, the thought surfaced unbidden: no warning. No toggle. Just consequences.
Garrick smiled, faint but approving. "You didn't fail," he said. "You just learned where the edge is."
I looked at the door.
"And if I don't want people to listen?"
He shrugged, kind and unapologetic. "Then don't speak."
I met his eyes again.
"But if you do," he added, "own it."
The rain continued its steady rhythm against the window, indifferent as ever.
And for the first time, I understood that being heard wasn't something you turned on.
It was something you stopped avoiding.