Sunlight stabs through my eyelids, sending fresh waves of pain through my skull. I groan and roll over, only to freeze as dried fabric crackles beneath me. Opening my eyes reveals muddy boot prints and grass stains marring the pristine white sheets the taverner's wife had hung just yesterday.

  "Perfect." My tongue grates my mouth like sandpaper.

  The simple act of sitting up makes the room spin. Crusted blood flakes from my hair, dotting the pillow like rust-colored snow. My probing fingers find a swollen lump above my right temple, the skin hot and tender. Fresh blood stains my fingertips.

  The washroom down the hall seems miles away, but I force myself to stand. Each step sends thundering echoes through my head. Last night floods back in fragments--the guard's torchlight cutting through darkness, the horse's scream, that haunting melody...

  The song. My stomach lurches as I remember its pull, how it wrapped around my magic like lovers' fingers intertwining. Even now, I feel its absence like a physical ache.

  Chilly water from the washbasin helps clear my head. I dab carefully at the wound, watching pink-tinged rivulets snake down my neck. The mirror shows a ghastly sight--dried blood painting half my face, dark circles under my eyes, hair matted with mud and grass.

  "You look like something dragged from the Dravenmoor," I mutter, then wince as the forest's name triggers another pulse of memory. The desperate notes, the colors dancing behind my eyes, that sense of recognition...

  My hands shake as I clean away the evidence of last night's encounter. That guard had seen my face. Even now, he could be reporting to his captain, describing the woman who used magic to spook his horse. Would anyone believe him? Could I risk such a possibility? I need to leave, but my head throbs with every movement. The room tilts when I bend to splash more water on my face and neck.

  The basin's surface ripples, and for a moment I swear I hear an echo of that otherworldly melody. But it's just the pounding in my skull, the aftermath of iron-shod hooves meeting bone.

  I hate the thought of moving more, going out into the sunlit day, but if I’m to work tonight, I need to get rid of this pain. Going back to my bag to fetch a handful of coins, I stagger out of the tavern and make my way down the dirt road of Redbrook to the pothecary.

  The sun is too bright, the chatter of residents too loud amongst the twittering and whistling birds. Any other day it would be beautiful. I'd find a quiet place to sit with my lute and compose new songs or play with threads of magic, refining my skills. Today would not be one of those days.

  The chemist stands behind the counter as I step into the shop. He's pulling open drawers and placing pinches of things and leaves into little, shallow glass bowls on a tray he's holding. Shutting a drawer, he turns to me with a smile. "The newest tavern bard, right?"

  I force myself to smile, even as it brings a new throb of pain cutting through my temple. "Yes, hello."

  His smile faulters a little as he tilts his head, studying the lump and blood I wasn’t able to scrub off without causing more pain. "Lemme guess. Headache, nausea, dizziness?" Before I can even agree with his diagnosis, he turns, shaking his head. "How'd you get that beauty, if you mind me asking?"

  I practiced the lie in my head as I walked over. "Someone celebrating a little too drunkenly when I walked by," I say. "I think I got all the glass out."

  "Does it need stitches?" He turns back to me, holding a tiny paper pouch between his fingers. "Lean over the counter and I'll take a look."

  I lean over the best I can. With gentle hands, he turns my head, probing with a cool finger. "Looks clean enough. A couple of stitches might not hurt. "

  I wince at the thought. "I’d rather not," I say, fishing coins from my pocket. "How much do I owe you?"

  "Two coppers, the ingredients are cheap enough," he replies, taking the coins as I offer them. "Take it as a tea and have a rest."

  "Thanks."

  As soon as his fingers grasp the coins, he hands me the pouch. "Must have been one heck of a party last night."

  I pause, only turning halfway. "Why is that?"

  "Oh, you aren't the only one with a headache and a tale today," he chuckles to himself. I turn back to him as he pockets the money, brushing dust off the counter with one hand. "One of the border guards was here before I even opened up the shop. Said he was chasing a monster from the boarder when his horse threw him. Hit the ole' noggin pretty good on a rock."

  "Oh," is all I can think of to say. Inward, I'm glad the guard didn't die. I should have checked on him before I left, yet I didn't want to be caught. If I had… but if he had died… I shook my head as I lifted the paper pouch. "Thanks again."

  I step out of the apothecary, clutching the small paper pouch in my hand. The afternoon sun seems less brutal now, though my head still throbs with each heartbeat. Relief floods through me knowing the guard survived. I hadn't meant to hurt him—just to escape. Magic born of desperation is rarely gentle.

  The walk back to the tavern feels longer than it should. Every face I pass becomes a potential threat, every glance in my direction makes my pulse quicken. Do they know? Can they tell what I am?

  "Just a few more steps," I mutter to myself, focusing on the promise of the healer's tea and blessed sleep.

  The tavern's familiar wooden sign creaks in a gentle breeze as I approach. Inside, a handful of early patrons nurse their ales while the innkeeper's wife sweeps the floor. She gives me a concerned look but doesn't comment on my appearance as I shuffle past. I hurry to the kitchen where a teapot is already simmering. Filling a mug, I carry the cup and pouch up to my tiny room.

  Setting the mug down on the floor and tipping half the pouch contents into it, I fall into the cot with a groan, fingertips gently probing the tender lump on my temple.

  That music. It wasn't just sound, it was alive somehow. I've woven magic into melodies all my life, but this was different. This was ancient. Primal. It reached inside me and touched something I didn't know existed.

  Taking a deep breath, the tea releases a sharp, minty aroma that cuts through my foggy thoughts. As the tea steeps, I pick up my lute, running my fingers over the strings without playing. The action is comforting, familiar.

  "What were you?" I whisper to the empty room, thinking of that haunting melody. "What did you want from me?"

  The Dravenmoor has always been forbidden, its dangers whispered about in taverns across the land. But those warnings speak of beasts, lures from loved ones, and boggy ground that swallows travelers whole—not songs that call to your very soul.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  I sip the bitter tea, wincing but welcoming the warmth spreading through my chest. My eyelids grow heavy as the herbs begin their work.

  Tomorrow, I'll need to decide whether to stay or move on. The guard saw my face. He knows what I can do. For now, I need to rest, and tonight, perform.

  But the song... I need to understand what pulled at me with such power.

  * * *

  I wake with a start, the remnants of my dream clinging like filthy cobwebs to my mind. I realize with a jolt that the sun is already sinking toward the horizon, bathing the room in amber light. I've slept the entire day away.

  "Damn it," I mutter, wincing as I sit up too quickly. My head seems better, the sharp pain reduced to a dull throb, but a fog still clouds my thoughts.

  The dream lingers, too vivid to dismiss. A man with a voice like honey and smoke singing that same haunting melody that led me to the Dravenmoor. His mesmerizing face formed through the wisps, beautiful, exotic like a mountain stone... until he turned, and leathery wings unfurled from his back, casting shadows that swallow the light. Then his face changed, becoming the guard. Eyes wide with pain and horror, mouth moving in silent words I couldn't understand as blood trickled from the corners.

  I splash water from the basin onto my face, trying to wash away the memory. The cold shock helps clear my head, but not my unease. Dreams are just dreams, I tell myself. Except when they're not. My grandmother used to say that music opens doors between worlds, and dreams slip through those cracks.

  "Nonsense," I say aloud, though my voice lacks conviction. I run wet fingers through my tangled hair, working out the knots as best I can before I rework it in a loose braid. A quick glance in the small, cloudy mirror shows circles under my honey-brown eyes. The bruise on my temple is darkening to a deep purple, puckering around a jagged wound that seems less swollen. Frowning, I rework my hair to fall over my temple, hiding the injury.

  I change into my cleanest shirt and brush dust from my trousers. The tavern will be filling soon, and despite everything, I need to perform. Coin is coin, and I can't afford to lose this night's wages. If I leave tomorrow, I'll need all I can earn tonight.

  But the dream... What was it trying to tell me? The guard's face transforming into a winged man could be a warning, but of what? That my actions last night will have consequences? That the melody is dangerous? That I should or shouldn't flee Redbrook?

  I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers absently plucking at my lute strings to warm them up. The notes sound hollow, empty without purpose. Not like that melody from the Dravenmoor—that felt alive, purposeful. Powerful.

  "What do you want from me?" I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm asking—the melody, the winged man, or something else entirely.

  A sharp knock startles me from my thoughts.

  "Miss Dain!" The taverner's wife's voice carries through the wooden door, pitched somewhere between concern and irritation. "Are you well? The common room's filling up, and folks are asking when you'll start."

  I wince, setting my lute aside. "I'm coming, Mistress Breen. Just a moment!"

  "Just a moment passed half an hour ago," she replies, her tone softening. "Are you still unwell? My husband says you looked half-dead when you came in last night."

  "No, I'm fine. Really." I gather my lute and sling it over my shoulder. "I'll be down straight away."

  Her footsteps retreat down the hallway, and I catch her muttering something about "temperamental artists" that makes me smile despite myself.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. The melody from the forest hovers at the edges of my mind, tempting me to follow its twisting path. I push it away, focusing instead on the songs I'll perform tonight, familiar tunes about heroes and lovers, the kind that loosen purse strings and earn me a warm meal and a little extra.

  "Not now," I whisper to the phantom melody. "I have work to do."

  I flex my fingers, feeling for that space between notes where magic lives. It's there, a subtle current beneath my skin, waiting to be channeled. Tonight, I'll need to be careful—no accidental enchantments, no losing myself in the music. Just enough to captivate my audience without raising suspicions. I didn’t do anything wrong. I'm just a bard.

  The memory of the winged man's face flickers behind my eyelids. I push that away too.

  "One night," I tell myself. "One normal night of songs and stories, and then..." And then what? Return to the forest's edge? Follow that melody deeper into the Dravenmoor despite all the warnings? Make my way to the next town, far away from the cursed forest?

  I shake my head, adjusting my braid and straightening my shirt. One problem at a time. First, I perform. Then I decide.

  I make my way down the narrow staircase, each step sending a dull ache through my bruised body. The common room buzzes with conversation, the air thick with familiar pipe smoke and savory roasting meat. Heads turn as I enter, and I force a smile despite my stiffness.

  "There she is!" someone calls, and a smattering of applause follows.

  I find my usual spot near the hearth and settle onto the stool, wincing as I adjust my position for the bruises. My fingers press, clumsy and slow on the lute strings at first, like they belong to someone else. The first song comes out adequate but uninspired, a simple ballad about a soldier returning home that I could play in my sleep.

  I settle into the rhythm of the second song, a livelier tune about a mischievous fairy that always gets feet tapping. The familiar notes help ground me, pushing away thoughts of the forest and its eerie call. As my confidence returns, I finally take in the room around me.

  The Broken Barrel is packed tonight. Lanterns cast a warm glow over worn wooden tables, their light catching on pewter and glass tankards and creating pools of shadow in the corners. The ceiling beams are low enough that taller patrons must duck their heads, and years of smoke have stained the wood a rich amber.

  Near the bar, a group of field workers still carry the day's soil on their hands and clothes, laughing boisterously over their ale. Their faces are sun-weathered and honest, hands calloused from honest labor. One man with a magnificent red beard throws his head back in laughter, slapping his companion's shoulder hard enough to spill his drink.

  By the window, three young men in their Sunday best pretend not to stare at the table of girls nearby. They've clearly tried to look groomed, each with hair slicked back in expensive, perfumed oil. One keeps smoothing his new waistcoat, while another sneaks glances at a pretty blonde whenever he thinks no one's watching.

  The homey aroma of yeast and barley, roasted meat and woodsmoke, all mingle with the sweat of hard-working bodies and the lavender water some of the younger women have dabbed behind their ears.

  An older couple sit in the corner, fingers intertwined on the tabletop, listening to my music with closed eyes. They've been coming every night I've played, always requesting the same folk song before they leave.

  As I launch into the chorus, several patrons join in, their voices creating a patchwork of harmony and discord that somehow works perfectly. A serving girl twirls between tables, balancing a tray of drinks while she sings and dances along.

  A warm smile spreads across my face—genuine this time, not the performer's mask I put on earlier. For all its simplicity, there's something beautiful about this place, these people. My small corner of the world, where music is just music, and magic is just a story told over ale.

  By the fourth song, something shifts. The melody of "The Fisherman's Waif" flows more naturally, the familiar glow of camaraderie and joviality spreading from my chest down to my fingertips. The magic comes unbidden, subtle threads of enchantment weaving through the notes. I don't fight it this time.

  The tavern patrons respond instantly. A merchant who'd been nursing the same ale for an hour signals for another. Two farmers who looked ready to leave settle back into their seats, ordering a plate of bread and cheese. Even dour-faced Mistress Breen's lips curve into a smile as she pours more drinks.

  I lean into the magic, letting it flow through each verse. The stiffness in my shoulders melts away, replaced by the peculiar lightness that comes when the music takes over. My voice grows stronger, clearer, filling every corner of the room.

  By my fifth song—a rowdy tune about a clever barmaid and her three suitors—the entire tavern joins in the chorus, stamping feet and pounding tables in rhythm. Coin clinks into my open lute case, and the taverner can barely keep up with drink orders.

  When I finish with a flourish, the room erupts in cheers. I bow my head in acknowledgment, suddenly aware of how parched my throat is.

  "A break, good people," I announce, setting my lute aside. "Even bards need to wet their whistles."

  A frothy mug of ale appears before me, courtesy of a grinning farmer.

  "For the best music we've heard in months," he says with a wink.

  I accept it with a grateful sigh, taking a long sip. The ale is cool and refreshing, washing away the dust in my throat. Leaning back against the wall, I survey the lively room with satisfaction. Despite everything, the strange melody, the forest, my injuries, I've managed to create this moment of joy.

  Of course, it couldn't last. Like my grandmother always used to say, anything worth living for cannot last.