Leaves of yellow, orange and red played in the fading golden light. Brightly dyed ribbons and streamers were strung from lamp post to lamp post, crisscrossing the main thoroughfares of the city. They were a little less extravagant as Sitara traveled south-east toward low-town, but the streamers weren’t what she was there to see.

Katarn’s Festival of Fading Light was her favorite day of the year. She’d even adorned herself in multicolored silks to match the leaves.

Fireworks and cheers echoed through the streets. Dance companies twirled and leapt in across the avenues. Peppered meat buns and fried potato dumplings spiced the air along with the discordant melodies of hundreds of street musicians.

She beamed, a smile so wide her face might be sore the next day.

Today was especially grand because she’d finally convinced Sawari and Lulia to check out the new performer she’d heard about. She wouldn’t call him famous, but she always had her ear to the ground for new artists, and the floor of gossip was abuzz. A mysterious foreigner who melted hearts with his flute had appeared in low-town.

They rounded onto Blade Street and stopped when they reached the door etched with crude engraving of a wine bowl above the words “Garam’s Inn”.

Her friends were exhausted from walking around the festival all day so it hadn’t been hard to convince them to come early to find seats in case it was crowded.

Inside was simple, she traced the wall with her hand, looking at the newer, Parvethi-style brickwork filling in holes that had been bigger than the doorway itself.

The group seated themselves at a table. This one looked newer. The whole space was overcrowded with mismatched furniture. It was a room that felt like it preferred the slow life of a back-street tavern and inn, but had recently been given a new role.

A short girl with sun-baked skin, a round face, and hazel eyes—that would have been pretty if they didn’t look quite so calculating—walked up and took their order. Apparently, this place was one of few in Katarn that served mead, some kind of honey drink from the west. She ordered some.

“Kind of a run-down place, isn’t it?” said Sawari, looking around.

“Who even uses candles anymore, right?” chimed Lulia. “Even the dives on Lake Street are using Aetherlight these days.”

“I don’t know,” said Sitara, only half paying attention. “I think it’s kind of romantic.”

Her eyes followed the girl to the bar where a large Parvethi man—much bigger than her own father, with a military tattoo from the homeland on his forearm—turned and filled several bowls from a barrel, handing each to the serving girl. But he couldn’t quite fill the last bowl, and he boomed something to someone in the back.

“Psht!” Sawari snorted. “You would say that Sita.”

“Anyway,” Lulia said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “what do you think he looks like? This foreign musician. I bet he’s cute.”

“You think pigs are cute, Lulu,” Sawari retorted.

Sitara hadn’t taken her eyes off the two working at the bar. The big man had to be Garam. It made sense given the brick work she’d seen.

As she watched, a much smaller man, in a baggy shirt and pants, burst through the door from the back room. A barrel as big as him was balanced on his shoulder, blocking her view of his face. She watched, transfixed, as the man, who couldn’t be much bigger than Ren, lowered the barrel onto the rack for the barkeep—sinewy muscles pressing against his shirt as he strained.

The man turned toward the kitchen door once more and she caught sight of his face. Wait! That was Ren. How long had he been working here? When had he gotten so strong?

She remembered fondly his twig like limbs, his awkwardness, his clumsiness, like his mind was always somewhere miles away from his body.

Could this really be the same boy?

But even more exciting—did he know the performer? She bit her lip. He might not ever want to talk to her again after what had happened at her parents’ shop the last time they’d seen each other.

“Holy Light Sita! Are you even listening?”

Sitara tore her eyes away as Ren returned to the back with an empty barrel. “Did either of you know that Ren works here?”

“Ugh, he would work in a place like this,” Sawari said, gulping when she saw the dangerous gleam in Sitara’s eye. “-I mean, look how cool this place is. It’s a total hidden gem.”

They bantered and gossiped through another bowl of mead as the tavern filled up. The warmth from the alcohol mingled with her growing anticipation. The musician would be there any minute.

*******

Melfina nearly jumped as a firework exploded just above her, her knuckles were white around the pommel of her sheathed blade. That wouldn’t do at all. She was a cultivator. A warrior. A prophesied hero, depending on who you asked.

These months cleaning up the gutters of Katarn had made her jumpy.

But she’d either finished the job or the gangs had wised up and decided to lie low. Either way, her contract with the Osirus clan was up, and it was her last night in the city. She decided to return to Garam’s to celebrate a job well done and check out this new musician she’d been hearing talk of. There were rumors it was a cultivator.

More than anything, though, Melfina was looking forward to a good bowl of mead. It was the only thing out here that tasted like home. So many leagues and years stood between her and the place where she’d grown up.

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She escaped the chaos of the festival, ducking into the inn.

Things had changed.

Garam’s had always been sparsely furnished, an unspoken message from the owner that he didn’t like big crowds, and he had opened up shop on the outskirts for a reason. Now though, the place was packed with tables and stools and benches, and most of the seats were full. You could hardly walk through the place without bumping shoulders.

There were also some nicely dressed people in the place tonight. She noted in particular a group of pretty girls dressed in colorful silks.

She felt eyes on her back and turned to see a cloaked figure sipping from a teacup held in bony hands. Could it be?

The figure gestured to her. Permission.

Truly the fates had brought her here tonight. She pressed down the girlish desire to skip toward the table. She was a cultivator, after all. She also knew that it was probably these silly parts of her that needed to be expunged for her to overcome this block in her cultivation.

She allowed herself to give the man a small bow as she neared the table, knowing any more would invite undue attention that might draw his ire.

“Master, this one is grateful to see you again.” She lifted her head as he lowered his hood and patted the chair beside him.

The man merely smiled.

They sat in silence for a time, and she ordered tea from the serving girl.

Her master frowned. “You should order mead.”

“But-” But this was how things were done! Emulation was expected between a master and a student!

There it was again. Her weakness of character, her defensiveness. “Yes, Master.”

When the tea arrived, she ordered mead.

“You know, young one,” said her master, “the fastest way to the top of the mountain is almost never the most direct path.”

Indeed, her master’s wisdom was profound. In this case, too profound for her to really understand what he was trying to say. She just nodded and stored the words away with the other lessons she had yet to comprehend.

He sighed, then grabbed her mead when it arrived and took a long sip. A very long sip. He smiled as he put the empty bowl back down on the table.

“What a lovely drink! I might get one for myself.” He laughed and leaned back, relaxing into his chair.

“You should get one for yourself,” he said. “It is very good.” His blind eye winked at her.

She bit her tongue and ordered two more the next time she saw the serving girl. This time she would get to drink her mead.

“Ah, just in time,” said her master as the freshly poured mead arrived. “I think this performer might be able to teach you what I cannot, young one.”

He’d still never acknowledged her as a student, and it burned every time he merely called her ‘young one’.

“Nonsense, Master!” she said, a bit too loud. “No mere performer could ever hope to match your wisdom.”

“Is it not my wisdom that is telling you to listen to the music then?”

Melfina bit her tongue once more. She could really be such a fool.

But her master didn’t look upset. In fact, he looked more excited than she’d ever seen him, his eye was fixed on the lone stool that sat waiting for the performer.

The door swung open and a familiar looking scrawny serving boy came out carrying a Ney flute. She hadn’t seen one of those in a long time.

He seated himself on the stool and closed his eyes. A girlish squeak broke into the silence from the table of pretty girls.

Melfina squinted and frowned. He was no cultivator. His Qi seed was pathetic, or maybe average for a normal mortal. She couldn’t really tell. They all seemed pathetic to her. Sheep that needed people like her to protect them from the wolves of the world.

The boy took a deep breath and played a single long note. It wavered as it struggled to find its identity, but eventually it resonated and filled the room. He did this seven more times, each time a different note, each resonance carrying a different emotion.

Then he began a song. A song that spoke of the ending of things and the cycle of birth and death, and the life that rises from those things that survive the winter. It was a song that said, I fear not my end, and I shall dance with all my heart and beauty into it.

The song burrowed deep, and she lost herself in it as something delicate was planted within her.

As he played, the door blew open and leaves swirled about the room, one landing on her master’s upraised palm. He had tears in his eyes. Melfina blinked, realizing that she too was crying.

*******

Garam wiped his eyes and smiled as the song ended.

His tavern was full. Fuller than he liked, but seeing how Norn would sway to the music when she thought nobody was looking, how she had started humming while she was cleaning, how she even sang along one time with the folk songs that followed Ren’s signature piece… He hadn’t seen her do those things in the sixteen years since they’d met.

The night proceeded smoothly. Eventually, the door was propped open so that more people could listen.

Then Ren finished, and applause shook the floorboards. The boy reddened and ducked his head, packing up his flute, and making his way toward the bar. But a guest stood and blocked his path.

It was a big boy, and he was ready to fight and several more boys stood up after him.

He spat on Ren’s face and called to a table in the back of the room. “Is this what you want, Sitara? Is this what you left me for?”

“What are you doing here Sig!” A pretty girl who looked like she was from Garam’s homeland stood up. “Are you following me now? I said I need space!”

Ren turned upon hearing her voice, ignoring the first and most important lesson Garam had tried to teach him about combat. Don’t take your eyes off the enemy.

The innkeeper’s hand passed over the crossbow he kept under the bar and landed on his club. The big boy’s stance told the innkeeper that he’d been trained pretty well.

“But we’ve been promised!” The boy yelled, his voice cracking. “Our parents already agreed!”

Then his eyes hardened and he squared on the distracted Ren, who looked like a deer frozen in firelight, gaping at the girl.

Norn had started to move, but she didn’t make it there.

“You best take your complaints elsewhere,” said Fennick, rising to his feet. The baker’s boy was probably the same size as the one threatening Ren, but much more of his weight was fat. “He’s one of us!”

At that a whole swath of regular customers stood. The boys didn’t back down though.

BANG

Garam slammed his club down on the bar. “No fighting in my bar!”

The boy looked his way, then narrowed his eyes on the innkeeper’s arm tattoo.

“You foreigners think you can come here to our country and order us around! I’ll bite my tongue off the day I let a Parvethi dog tell me what to do. I know what that tattoo means, you mongrel. My grandfather fought and died a hero at the hands of you Red Raiders!”

His voice was full of a surprising amount of emotion. Pain colored the anger of his words.

“If you know what this means,” Garam said, slowly, “Then you know I don’t need a room full of allies to take you and your friends apart, limb by limb.” He spat, disgusted at the words coming from his mouth. But he’d have time to think about what had led him to threaten a group of naive children later.

The boy’s face reddened, but his allies all blanched. One grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him toward the door.

“Let them go,” ordered Garam.

Norn was beaming up at him. It troubled him how much she seemed to admire this side of him. He wished she’d never had to see it.

“Aziroth’s Flaming Horse Cock. That almost got messy.” The old innkeeper stored his club and sighed. “I hope this doesn’t turn into something ugly down the line.”