The Inn of the Veiled Columns rested discreetly among the solemn buildings of the Marble District, hidden behind a white stone façade covered in vines, where the polished marble was swallowed by ancient ivy, as if nature itself sought to soften the austere lines of republican power. From the outside, it was just another structure forgotten by time; inside, it pulsed like the unofficial heart of Valdharis politics. Civil servants, judges, and even generals sought refuge there among the columns veiled by crimson velvet curtains, drinking aged wine and exchanging confidences they would never dare to commit to official documents. The main hall was warmed by a hearth that never went out, and the aroma of exotic spices mixed with the discreet scent of old wood and paper — as if the very space, impregnated with speeches and promises, had its own memory.
But it wasn't just the atmosphere that had made the inn famous. Among the ebony tables and worn leather benches, a small figure, almost always barefoot, roamed with her lute slung over her shoulder: Tilka Leafrunner, the halfling bard who had become as legendary as the inn itself. Tilka had red hair as unruly as her tongue and green eyes that always gleamed with a ready anecdote or an unusual song. Her voice, sharp and crystalline, cut through the murmur of the hall like a honed blade, and her ballads could bring either tears or indecent laughter from even the most stern-faced judges. It was said that Tilka knew the secrets of half of Valdharis, that she learned of conspiracies before they were even plotted, and that her most famous song, veiled in metaphors and puns, contained the entire account of a betrayal that would change the fate of the Republic. For that reason, at the Inn of the Veiled Columns, people always toasted to the health of the little bard — even among those who feared that, in her next song, she might reveal more than she should.
— How shall we approach her? People seem to prioritize her presence and don't leave her alone when she's silent. — Khaled moved closer to the counter. The tables were filled with all sorts of figures, different in both race and status.
Fashion had also changed. One could see that, in the inn, the republican nobility flaunted long dark velvet frock coats, buttoned up to the neck with rows of delicate metal buttons carved with revolutionary symbols. The collars were high and structured, reminiscent of ancient ceremonial armor, but softened by fabrics imported from distant lands. Common folk wore fitted vests, with golden chains supporting pocket watches, while others paraded in straight-skirted dresses, reinforced with light leather structures that replaced the old crinolines, allowing mobility without sacrificing elegance.
— I want clothes like that. Our outfits are so out of place. — There were still some who preferred the old, simpler clothes; yet, in that sea of differences, the past stood out.
— We can get some, after we talk to the bard. — Liandre looked around, searching for the familiar face. — No need to worry about spending money. Tilka owes me a few favors.
Khaled was surprised; he hadn't imagined that someone linked to the mercenary would be known here. His solitary figure had always stood out in their interactions so far. He knew that Liandre had once formed a mercenary guild, but he had given the impression that that part of his past had been left to gather dust in the deepest chamber of his heart. He watched the warrior move through the crowd. He took the opportunity to order a drink and some snacks. It was already night and they hadn't eaten anything since leaving the train. At least he could enjoy the comfort and the fluctuating sounds of the place. The conversations and loud noises reminded him of other times. They reminded him of novice adventurers entering inns, looking for a good place to rest after relentless battles or after raiding a dangerous dungeon.
He recalled with nostalgia their first adventure together. All of them had prior experience and decided to join forces precisely because of the power and the stories that followed their individual legacies: Randyr, the defender of the southern nomadic peoples, always protecting the small villages, putting her body in service of the community's well-being; Gilgrim, who spread the word of Everyn, but prioritized the safety of the less fortunate, healing diseases and ailments that afflicted those who had nothing; Laurent, even laid-back in his bravado, emerged as an inherent defender of natural folk since time immemorial; before coming of age, he was already venturing through dense forests on behalf of those without power, reaching cities and making a name for himself in every group he joined. He had always been someone who preferred company, moving among adventurers, leaving his name engraved in the mouths of bards.
The trail snaked along the steep slopes of the Black Mountains, the biting cold stiffening their fingers and words. Khaled walked in silence, the heavy cloak folded over his shoulders, his eyes alert to the cracks that split treacherous fissures among the rocks. Beside him, Gilgrim, the dwarven paladin, advanced with firm steps, her armor clinking discreetly beneath the white tabard, stained with dust and dried blood, her mace resting on her back as if it were merely an extension of her body. Randyr led the way, clearing the path with her twin axes, the blades worn but still sharp enough to behead a bear with a single wrist twist. The orc didn't speak much; she preferred letting the sound of metal slicing through the underbrush announce her presence, while her always-tense muscles moved her with the certainty of one born for war. Laurent walked just behind, the carefree archer, with his bow slung over his shoulder and a smile that disregarded the seriousness of the moment, softly whistling a tune that clashed with the harshness of that place. The arrows clinked in the quiver, keeping pace with his light steps. When they reached the summit, the sky was already tinged with rusty red, and Selnor's Lair loomed ahead: a wide crevice in the mountain, spewing hot vapors that condensed on their cold skin.
— Ready? — asked Khaled, even though he knew no one there needed the question. Randyr merely spun her axes at her wrists, cracking her neck like someone shaking off laziness. Gilgrim made the reverent sign of the Light over her chest, asking Everyn's blessing but without saying a word. And Laurent, his smile still intact, only muttered: — To die? Always. The charge was swift and brutal.
The dragon burst from the cave with a roar that made the stones vibrate beneath their feet, its wings shredding the mist, its teeth curved like ancestral daggers. Khaled raised his arms, conjuring a circle of flames that snaked through the rocks, forcing the beast to recoil with a deafening crack. Gilgrim charged with her mace raised, dodging the strike of the tail with the precision of someone who had survived worse duels, driving the symbol of her order into the creature's scaly flank. Laurent fired arrows in a steady rhythm, the projectiles whistling through the air and lodging between the fragile joints of the monster's armor, while shouting absurd taunts, laughing loudly as if death were just another game.
But it was Randyr who changed the course of the battle: with a hoarse cry, she crossed through the flames, spun the axes above her head, and with a force that seemed capable of shattering the mountain itself, drove both blades into the base of the dragon's neck, bringing it down in an explosion of blood and black smoke. The silence that followed was as abrupt as the initial roar. Khaled breathed heavily, his body trembling, his skin marked by soot. He looked around: Gilgrim, kneeling, offered a quick prayer for the dead who weren't there, but who always deserved a whisper. Laurent was already settling on a stone, stretching his legs and rummaging through his backpack for a bottle of wine, as if that hadn't been a battle but a mere inconvenience on his journey. And Randyr, bloodied and smirking, cleaned her axes with the calm of someone who knew that, deep down, that had been just the first monster they would face together. Despite the harsher aspect of a ruthless warrior, her true nature revealed an even more powerful fighter. Khaled watched them, silent, and it was in that moment, amidst the smoke and the smell of charred flesh, that he knew, without needing to say it: there, beside them, he had found something he hadn't been looking for — an alliance. Perhaps even a friendship. And then, he simply sat beside Laurent, accepted the makeshift cup of wine, and for the first time in days, allowed himself to laugh.
— That's my companion, the wizard who was robbed. — Liandre's voice cut through his thoughts as he sipped the inn's sweet prestigious wine. He turned his gaze to the small yet solemn figure in front of him; Tilka, without a doubt, drew attention with her fiery hair and sharp look.
— HA! What a shame they pulled one over on you, elf. — Tilka jumped onto the stool beside him, making the wizard raise an eyebrow. Somehow, her nonchalant gestures reminded him of Laurent.
— Be more respectful, Tilka. — Liandre didn't seem serious in his words; in fact, he ended up chuckling discreetly, thinking how the halfling spoke so casually to a living legend without even realizing it. — This is...
— You can call me Khal. — The wizard wouldn't give his real name to a bard. That would be a death sentence, especially since he imagined how vast her repertoire must be. Particularly given how irreverently she presented herself, and at the same time, how everyone else devoted her respect.
— Of course, Khal. It's unusual to see the big guy with someone. — Tilka gave Liandre a slap on the shoulder, who was more focused on ordering a drink and something to fill his belly.
— Circumstances brought us together. Besides, solitary adventurers don't tend to survive long in this world, do they? Even Liandre needs company. — He smiled softly, noticing that Liandre had grown slightly embarrassed. — But, Tilka, we'd like to know about the person who took what belonged to me. If possible, with a precise location, we'd pay the due price.
— Relax about that, just tell me the little problem. In other situations, I wouldn't even listen, but since he's a friend of the big guy, you can count on me. He's saved my ass a few times. — The attendant didn't take long to bring the orders. He gave the bard a kind of cocktail with a halved lime in the glass cup and a greenish liquid, smelling strongly of pineapple and mint. — It's my favorite.
— We're looking for a woman named Jean D'Liore. — Khaled got straight to the point. He intended for them to go somewhere more discreet and less noisy, but they weren't hiding; there was no reason to make their intentions sound sinister, especially as he noticed that the bard seemed quite perceptive — and what bard wasn't? They all seemed to have a natural instinct that allowed them to unravel mysteries eloquently.
— I know her. But are you sure it was Jean who robbed you? She doesn't seem like the type who would steal, even if something was left right in front of her. I'm sure it could've been a mistake. — Tilka furrowed her brow slightly, savoring the taste she loved so much. — Not that we're friends, but I'm not about to bring trouble to an innocent person's house, you know?
— Khal is a mage, Til. He left the grimoire at the Cosmic Tower, and the "donation" just vanished. We're not going to corner whoever took it and threaten them; we just want to retrieve what belonged to someone else. — Liandre would've already offered some good gold coins for information, but knowing that wouldn't work with the bard, it was better to explain. No point in beating around the bush with unnecessary flourishes.
— Got it, got it. Jean is a skilled sorceress who was expelled from the Palace of the Revolution a few years ago — I think about five, to be exact. She's a specialist in magical cuisine and runs a restaurant near the city center. Spends more time in the kitchen than living at her own house. Despite that... I think they're about to shut the place down. The reason? Suspicions of alchemical sorcery involving chimeras. — Tilka jumped off the stool before even finishing her drink. — I'll take you there.
Khaled couldn't believe that an alchemist sorceress had managed to take his book off the shelves. Sorcerers. Creatures underestimated for their limited magical repertoire. Rare, yes, for fundamental arcanism ran in their blood. Born from ancient dragons, fae, or beings made of pure magic, at some point, the sorcerer emerges, exuding the deepest magic — generations upon generations of arcane alignments bound to a single being who doesn't need to study the basics. They don't need to learn how to master the fundamentals; they simply release and chant ancient spells instinctively, as if their ancestors themselves guided them to the knowledge. That's why sorcerers were nearly extinct. The combination of blood and magic had become scarcer over the years. Wild magic, running through common veins, had become rarer. And now he discovered that someone who didn't usually learn magic at academies had seized his only possession?
— Why was Jean expelled from the Palace? — Liandre asked as they walked outside. They managed to catch the last tram. The night showed the moon shrouded in smoke and soot; there was no way to tell if the sky was filled with clouds or if the city's smoke rose and mingled with the cold and inconstant atmosphere of the stars.
— Incompatibility with our rulers. Jean was a discreet part of the current politics; ever since our leader took over the palace, their ideas seemed dissonant. Besides, Jean was focused on learning about magical cuisine, an interest she acquired while exploring the wild corridors of the Cosmic Tower. She spent so many hours in that place that she was fired for not fulfilling her public duties. In other words, she was dismissed for job negligence.
Someone who couldn't fulfill her duties as part of the government had really stolen his grimoire? The disbelief was such that the feelings surrounding the deed fluctuated between restrained admiration and enigmatic confusion. How could he have supposed that such a thing would happen? Logically, he hadn't dismissed the possibilities. But he realized that ever since he'd left that damned tower, the arcane flow had become smoother than before. And he imagined that Farandhur had tightened the arcane webs, making it so fewer mages could achieve high performance; even powerful beings from the past should be struggling to cast complex circles. He could still overflow with magic. He imagined that wouldn't be the case for today's society. The god of magic wouldn't allow another anomaly to be born. Not after thinking he was being threatened by his former lover.
— Do you know her intimately? — Liandre asked, more to know to what extent they could have a less subtle approach.
— What? Are you implying I slept with Jean? No, man. — The bard made a dismissive gesture. — I like strong and bigger men. — In the same sentence, the small woman winked at the other, who just shrugged.
— That's not what I meant, damn it. — The mercenary wasn't happy about being teased in front of Khaled, giving the mage a sidelong glance, who still seemed lost in his own musings. — I just wanted to know if you were friends or if you were on the same team.
— Ah, got it. — Tilka also looked at the mage, giving a more knowing smile upon noticing the mercenary's interest in his pointy-eared companion. She nudged Liandre's leg with her elbow, who just shook his head, embarrassed. — No, but I met Jean at a celebration ball for the 24th anniversary of the revolution, in April. She was invited with a certain honor, even after being dismissed. I heard her story in the obscure corridors of the palace and we exchanged a few words. She is, without a doubt, someone with notable integrity and is kind, but distant and shy. I already knew her from the gossip going around. The inn is frequented by people from the top circles, so hearing complaints and some names, here and there, was never strange. Fishing for information up until the moment you're face-to-face with the subject of the rumor is always exciting.
Liandre understood her words. They didn't take long to get off the tram heading to the final line. Workers were returning home, tired from a day's labor. From the clock, they could hear the shrill chime; it was past 8 p.m. on a night with stars obscured by the city lights that didn't seem to sleep.
The restaurant stood out on the small street of muddy cobblestones. A noble mansion of modest proportions, with a light stone facade covered in flowering vines, arched windows with colorful stained glass, and an internal courtyard flanked by slender columns; elegant, discreet, and imbued with an ancient, silent charm. Unlike other places that had adopted a mix of old and new, the building seemed a provocative breath in the noisy big city. And on the door, written in clear letters: "Closed indefinitely – Valdharis Sanitary Surveillance."
— Oh, damn. I came here twice and it really made me sick. — Tilka commented without really being sympathetic. She needed a doctor at the time and never came back.
— And you still came twice? What the hell. — The mercenary moved ahead, knocking on the door with more force than he'd have liked. It didn't take long for them to hear noises inside, something being knocked over as if the person had been startled by the sound of the door. Unaware of any visitors she might receive in the dead of night, after having her enterprise shut down.
Jean D'Liore was like a silent flame that never went out — discreet, contained, but capable of setting the world ablaze with her precise alchemy. Amid the translucent vapors of cauldrons and the dull gleams of enchanted stones, she moved with the meticulous elegance of someone who had always known that the chaos of magic only submits to the exact order of gestures. She had straight hair, of a bluish-black, always tied in braids she made herself, each strand in its proper place, like the formulas she memorized and recited silently. Her eyes, large and amber-brown, rarely met others' gazes, but incessantly traced the contours of the world: lines, textures, colors... It was through these details — a crack in the wood, the density of the steam, the almost imperceptible sound of boiling — that she read life. The slightly pointed ear, subtle, indicated she was a half-elf, a condition now as rare as sorcerers. Her age? Apparently, she was in her thirties, but since her race lived longer than humans, there was no way to tell.
Jean spoke little, and when she did, her voice sounded like the crackle of a dry leaf: firm, direct, but strangely delicate. Words, for her, were instruments of precision; she preferred the rough touch of roots, the acidic scent of herbs, the hot explosion of arcane powders when mixed with the right fire.
— Yes? — She said quickly upon opening the door. She looked at the trio but soon lowered her gaze toward the interesting cobblestones, dirty and, in their disordered chaos, finding balance.
— We came to talk about something that was taken from the Cosmic Tower. — Liandre said firmly.
— Oh, so you're the one the grimoire belongs to? — Jean finally raised her gaze, shyly, toward Khaled.