I woke to the sound of the inn breathing.
The low, indistinct life of a place already awake—footsteps in the corridor, a chair dragged across the floor below, the muted clink of crockery being set out for a morning that did not care who had left before it arrived.
For a moment, I lay still, listening—the sense that something expected had failed to arrive.
I sat up.
The room looked the same as it had when I went to sleep. Packs stacked neatly. Boots near the door. No signs of haste or disorder. Whatever decisions had been made during the night, they had been carried out cleanly.
I dressed more deliberately than usual, then followed the sound of the inn downward—voices, movement, life continuing without hesitation.
The common room was already awake.
A few tables were occupied. Mugs half-full. Conversation carried in fragments. Familiar faces remained—but the ones I found myself unconsciously counting were missing.
Jaheira was not there.
Khalid was not there.
No lingering presence. Just the quiet certainty that they had already moved on to what they believed needed doing.
That was when the absence settled. The understanding that the people who had carried authority by experience alone were no longer here to absorb uncertainty.
By the time I stopped moving, the realization had cooled into something sharper.
The world had not waited for us to be ready.
And now, neither could I.
Imoen was already seated when I noticed her.
Close enough to the hearth to catch what warmth it offered, far enough from the room's center to avoid attention. She sat with her elbows braced on the tabletop, fingers wrapped around a mug she hadn't yet lifted, eyes moving lazily over the room as though cataloging it out of habit.
She looked steady. Present.
I realized I'd stopped walking.
Something about the way she sat—comfortable in the space, unguarded without being careless—eased the tightness I hadn't noticed forming in my chest. She'd been here since the beginning.
She glanced up.
Caught me looking.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then her mouth curved slightly, the smile quick and unguarded. Color touched her cheeks—not enough to be obvious, just enough to suggest she was aware of herself being seen.
"Well?" she said. "You planning to keep staring, or are you going to sit down before your breakfast gets cold?"
She lifted her mug in a small, beckoning gesture and nudged the empty chair across from her with the toe of her boot.
I found myself smiling back before I'd consciously decided to.
I crossed the room and took the seat she'd offered.
The chair scraped softly. The inn's quiet resumed around us. Whatever had been taken during the night—whatever certainty had gone with it—this remained.
"They left early," Imoen said.
"I know."
She nodded once. "Rasaad was up even earlier. Said he needed air."
"And Xan?"
She snorted. "Alive. Regretting it."
That earned a short, genuine laugh.
She lifted her mug, watching me over the rim. "You good?"
The question was simple.
"I will be," I said.
Her smile returned—smaller, warmer. "Good. Because you're not doing this alone."
And just like that, the morning found its footing.
A chair scraped nearby—slow, deliberate, and deeply resentful of the effort required.
Xan appeared at the edge of the table like a man who had lost an argument with the morning and was still deciding whether to concede. His hair was slightly out of order, his robes rumpled in a way that suggested he'd slept in them out of defiance rather than necessity.
"Good news," he said quietly. "The world still exists."
Imoen brightened. "Oh good. I was worried."
"The bad news," Xan continued, lowering himself into a chair with exaggerated care, "is that it insists on doing so loudly."
He pressed two fingers to his temple and winced.
"I stayed hopeful," he added. "Briefly. It was exhausting."
I slid a mug toward him. He eyed it.
"If that's more Shadowdark Ale," he said, "I will die."
"It's water."
He sighed, took a cautious sip, and relaxed a fraction. "There. Survival continues. Against my better judgment."
"You always like ale this much?" Imoen asked.
"Like is a strong word," Xan replied. "I tolerate it because it agrees with my worldview. Everything deteriorates eventually."
Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched.
The levity didn't erase what was missing—but it reminded me the party still existed as something more than a list of problems.
"Rasaad said he'd be outside," Imoen added. "Listening."
Xan stood immediately. "If I am to suffer," he said, "I will do so collectively."
Outside, Nashkel had slipped into its morning rhythm. Voices overlapped in short exchanges. A wagon creaked somewhere down the street. Someone laughed too quickly, as if testing whether it was still permitted.
The town wore its damage subtly—upright, functional, and carefully avoiding the places where it still hurt.
Rasaad stood near the edge of the square, just beyond the inn's shadow. He wasn't watching anyone in particular. His attention moved instead through sound and motion—listening rather than looking.
He turned as we approached.
"The morning carries tension," he said. "The town remembers what happened, even if it prefers not to."
Imoen rocked back on her heels. "You say things like that like they're weather."
"Because they are."
Xan squinted against the light. "I preferred it indoors. The walls were honest about their intentions."
"You chose to come," Rasaad said calmly.
"I chose not to be alone."
Rasaad inclined his head.
"People speak freely in moments like this," he continued. "Not because they trust—but because they have not yet decided who to fear."
That settled heavily.
"There is a story being told," Rasaad went on. "Repeatedly. Quietly."
Imoen tilted her head. "About Brage."
"Yes."
Xan winced. "Of course it is. Nothing soothes a headache like a mad commander and his personal collapse."
"They say he stood apart," Rasaad said. "As if waiting for something to resolve itself."
That detail lodged uncomfortably.
"Waiting for what?" Imoen asked.
Rasaad's gaze moved to me. "Opposition," he said. "Or permission."
Xan sighed. "Philosophical slaughter. Always a crowd favorite."
"The behavior," Rasaad continued, "of a man who no longer distinguishes between command and compulsion."
The square carried on around us—boots on stone, a voice calling for help—but our small circle felt sealed.
"So," Imoen said, lighter than her eyes, "we've got an unaccounted commander, erased instructions, and a town holding itself together by habit."
She smiled faintly. "Sounds like a plan forming whether you like it or not."
I thought of that stillness. The waiting.
"Let's speak with Nalin again," I said. "If Brage touched Nashkel at all, the temple will know what the town won't say out loud."
Rasaad nodded immediately.
Xan sighed. "Very well. If we are to march toward inevitable misery, I would prefer it be informed misery."
Imoen straightened. "Temple first, then. Before something else decides we're late."
We turned as one.
The day did not resist.
It simply unfolded.