Taverns are where cities dream out loud. Neverwinter has many, but the Driftwood is where the tired ones go—soldiers with the mud of the walls still on their boots, crafters with the ache of the forge in their hands, mages with ink where their sleep should be. It is also where I go. They call me Whisper'ess, which is fitting. I listen more than I speak. Tonight, the smoke hangs low and the sound of the room gathers in layers: clattering mugs, a lute’s tired strings, the low murmur of conspiracies that are not quite brave enough to name themselves. On the small makeshift stage, Marji Moondancer spins a quiet spell. Her feet move in slow arcs, bare against the warped floorboards, each step leaving a shimmer of illusory moonlight that fades only when the next appears. Her hands sketch wider circles, weaving threads of pale luminescence through the air. The tavern falls into that particular hush that only follows a performer who has their audience by the throat and the heart at the same time. At the front table, Slappy Blackscales does not hush so much as redirect her volume. “THIS IS VERY PRETTY,” she announces, voice booming over the music. “I LIKE THIS ONE. LESS SAD THAN THE LAST ONE ABOUT THE DEAD TREE.” “That was about the Shadowfell,” Irongut Anvilfoot replies, wiping foam from his beard with the air of a scholar rebutting a thesis. “The tree was a metaphor.” “It was a dead tree,” Slappy insists. “Trees should not be dead. I like when they are on fire or holding hammocks. Not when they whisper regrets.” “Some would say the same of dwarves,” Irongut mutters, then grins into his tankard before she can decide if she is offended. I sit at the bar, near enough to listen, far enough to go unnoticed. Ysella Silkreed slides fresh mugs down the counter with alarming and admirable accuracy. She moves like she is weaving cloth even when she is just wiping spills—quick, precise, aware of every stray thread. “You are brooding,” she says without looking at me. “Listening,” I correct her. “Same thing, different tilt of the head,” Ysella replies. “Hear anything useful?” “Useful to whom?” I ask. She considers that, then shrugs one shoulder. “To anyone still alive.” On the far side of the room, in the curve of shadow between two support beams, something darker than the smoke leans against the wall. Qelqiroth Shestendegesh has the sort of presence most people choose not to perceive. The fabric of the room seems to warp around him in subtle ways—people’s eyes skip past, conversations bend, mug-bearers change course without realizing it. He does not hide, exactly. He simply stands in a place the mind is not eager to include in its map. He watches Marji’s dance with an intensity that is almost polite. Every now and then, his gaze flicks—briefly, sharply—toward Slappy, Irongut, the door. The city is a chessboard he has not yet decided how to ruin. “You are staring,” Ysella murmurs. “I am ensuring the Ledger remembers who was in the room when the song changed,” I say. Marji’s dance crescendos. Illusory moonlight floods the rafters, pooling in the lantern glass, turning spilled ale into quicksilver. For a heartbeat, the Driftwood Tavern looks like a temple that forgot its own name. Slappy slams her mug down and howls approval. Irongut pounds the table. Coins clatter onto the stage. Someone in the back wipes away tears they had not meant to show. In that exact moment, the door opens. A gust of cold night air shoves its way inside. With it comes a murmur, spreading from mouth to mouth faster than any song: “Something’s wrong near the Chasm.” “Spellguard saw lights.” “Stone moved where it should not.” It reaches my corner like the echo of a distant bell. It reaches Qelqiroth too. His eyes sharpen. The shadow around him seems, briefly, to smile. I empty my cup, leave it on the bar, and slide off the stool. “Leaving so soon?” Ysella asks. “Stories are moving,” I say. “I would rather meet them on the street than read about them in tomorrow’s panic.” Outside, Neverwinter breathes cold against my face. Above, the moon keeps her watch. Somewhere beneath the city, stone turns uneasily in its sleep. In the Ledger, the Soul Bearer will later ink a note beside this night: The tavern laughed while the ground decided whether or not to remain trustworthy.