The ballroom was stifling. Chatter echoed from every corner, a ceaseless hum of laughter and whispered gossip. The air smelled of perfume and wine, a cloying mix that made Bran’s head ache. He tugged at his tunic’s stiff collar and glanced around the room. Nobles drifted in small groups, their jeweled finery glinting in the light of the grand chandeliers. Here and there, their eyes slid to him and then quickly away, followed by a smirk or a whisper. He clenched his jaw. They weren’t openly hostile, but their thinly veiled disdain was somehow worse. At least an enemy with a drawn sword was honest.
Bran resisted the urge to fidget. I hate this. The weight of his sword was a constant comfort in battle, but here it was useless—a reminder that this was a battlefield of words and subtlety, not steel. Every smile felt like a trap, every laugh a dagger aimed at his back. Give me a fight over this any day.
He was debating whether to seek refuge by the refreshments when a servant approached, bowing slightly before leaning in to speak. “Sir Bran of Ashvale, you’ve been summoned to gather your companions. The king has arranged for accommodations at the Rose and Thorn Inn, just outside the city walls. You are to depart in the morning.”
Relief swept over him. An excuse to leave the party was a blessing. “Understood,” Bran said, nodding curtly. Finally. The servant bowed again and disappeared into the throng. Bran squared his shoulders and scanned the room. His task was clear—find the others and escape.
He spotted Lyra near a cluster of nobles, her back straight and her hands folded demurely in front of her. Her calm expression might have fooled him at first glance, but the sharp glint in her eye gave her away. She was trading veiled barbs with a noblewoman, her words honeyed but her tone edged like a duelist’s blade. The noblewoman’s laughter was brittle, and the tension between them was palpable even from a distance.
Bran strode over, catching the tail end of Lyra’s latest volley. “...of course, your family’s history is fascinating. I’d heard your great-grandfather was quite a skilled horse breeder. It must be rewarding to inherit such an illustrious legacy.”
The noblewoman’s smile faltered. “Indeed. And I’m certain you find your own background equally rewarding, despite its... humbler beginnings.”
“Lyra,” Bran interrupted, his voice firm. Both women turned to him, Lyra with a faint smirk, the noblewoman with an icy glare. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. “Do you know where the others are?”
Lyra’s smile widened. “Of course. Elias is hiding in that corner over there.” She inclined her head toward a shadowy alcove, where Bran could just make out Elias clutching a goblet and doing his best to blend into the drapes. “Gareth is charming a few noble girls by the balcony. And Isabella—” Lyra frowned thoughtfully. “I think I saw her talking to some of the servants earlier. She moves fast, though.”
“Thank you,” Bran said, keeping his tone brisk. We can’t leave fast enough. “I need you to help me gather them. We’re leaving for the inn soon.”
Lyra tilted her head, studying him. “You’re no fun, Bran.” Her smirk faded slightly, and she leaned closer. “But for the record, I’m not enjoying this as much as it looks. These people...” Her gaze flicked back to the noblewoman, who had already turned away, muttering something to her companions. “They’re exhausting.”
“All the more reason to leave,” Bran said. He gestured toward Elias’s corner. “I’ll send him to the courtyard. Go find Gareth. I’ll track down Isabella.”
Lyra nodded, brushing past him with a murmured “Good luck.” Bran sighed and made his way toward Elias, who froze as Bran approached. After a brief conversation and a few reassurances that he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else, Elias headed out, taking the goblet with him.
Bran wove through the crowd, searching for Isabella. He found her near the side of the room, her head bent close to a servant. Her posture was relaxed, but there was an intensity in her voice, though he couldn’t catch the words. He slowed, staying just far enough away to avoid interrupting, straining to overhear. What is she up to?
The servant nodded, murmuring something Bran couldn’t make out, then hurried off, leaving Isabella alone. She turned, catching sight of Bran before he could pretend he wasn’t watching.
“Something I can help you with?” she asked, her tone polite but cool. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her amber eyes glinted with something unreadable.
“We’re meeting in the courtyard and heading to the inn,” Bran said, his voice steady. Then, before he could stop himself, he asked, “What were you talking to the servant about?”
Isabella turned to him, one brow arching slightly. For a moment, her amber eyes searched his face, as though weighing how much to reveal. “I was giving him instructions for my absence,” she said finally. Her tone was casual, but something about the way she said it felt too practiced, too deliberate.
Bran nodded, but unease prickled at the back of his mind. She’s hiding something. Or at least not saying in here. He’d learned to trust his instincts over the years, and right now, they told him to let it go for now. “Good. We leave early.”
Isabella inclined her head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Of course.” Without waiting for a reply, she began walking toward the exit, her movements as fluid and composed as ever.
Bran followed, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. The nobles’ stares and murmurs barely registered now; his mind was busy turning over the exchange. She had answered his question, but there was something beneath her words, something unspoken. Giving him instructions for her absence. What does that really mean? He let out a slow breath. Whatever she’s keeping to herself, I’ll figure it out later. For now, he had to get out of this hellhole disguised as a party.
***
The courtyard was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the thin veil of clouds. Bran spotted his group gathered near the fountain, their faces lit with a mixture of relief and weariness. The muffled sounds of the party inside still carried through the open windows, but out here, the air was cooler and freer. Finally, some breathing room.
Elias stood slightly apart from the others, cradling a silver goblet in his hand. Bran frowned as he approached. “You planning on keeping that?”
Elias blinked, looking down at the goblet as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “Right.” He set it down on the edge of the fountain, muttering something under his breath. At least he didn’t try to justify it.
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Lyra chuckled, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they expect us to work with those people,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “All smiles and pleasantries, but they’d stab you in the back with a smile if they could.”
Bran crossed his arms, his lips thinning into a line. She’s not wrong. I’d rather deal with an ambush on the road than that snake pit of a ballroom.
“If titles mean becoming like them,” Gareth added, “maybe I’ll just take the gold and be on my way.”
“No shit,” Elias murmured, glancing toward the brightly lit ballroom. “I’d rather deal with a cranky archmage than another night like that.”
“Don’t jinx us,” Lyra said with a grin. “The king might just pair us with one for fun.” The group chuckled softly, the tension of the party beginning to ease as they fell into step with Bran leading them out of the courtyard. At least they could joke about it. Maybe that’s a good sign.
The streets of the city were lively, even at this hour. Drunken peasants staggered arm in arm, singing off-key songs that echoed down the cobblestone streets. A few merchants leaned against their stalls, sharing laughs and stories as the celebration wound down. Bran kept his eyes moving, sticking to the edges of the road with the group. No point in attracting trouble. Not tonight.
The city gates loomed ahead, their iron-bound doors standing slightly ajar. The guards stationed there straightened at the sight of the group but made no attempt to salute or acknowledge them beyond a brief glance. One of them waved lazily to signal their passage.
Bran gave a curt nod as they walked through the gates. “Looks like we’re just another job to them,” he muttered, his voice low.
“Good,” Isabella replied evenly from the back of the group. “Already had too much attention for one day.” Hard to argue with that. Bran thought.
Beyond the gates, the night was quiet save for the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional distant cheer from the city. The moon bathed the path in pale light, making the walk to the inn feel less foreboding than it might have otherwise. Conversation ebbed and flowed, mostly centered on the party and their shared disdain for the nobles. By the time they reached the Rose and Thorn Inn, the sounds of the city had faded entirely. The building sat at the edge of a grove, its dark timber walls glowing faintly in the moonlight. A single lantern burned by the door, casting flickering shadows over the cobblestones.
Inside, the common room was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made Bran’s instincts prick. The innkeeper, a stout man with a balding head, glanced up from wiping the bar and offered a nod. “You must be the king’s lot. Welcome.”
“Quiet night?” Lyra asked, her voice tinged with suspicion as she scanned the room.
The innkeeper set the cloth aside. “Rented out the whole place for you lot. No one else but me and the staff.” He gestured toward a pile of gear stacked near the hearth. “Your things are there. Provisions, too.”
The explanation settled the group’s nerves somewhat, though Bran noticed Lyra’s hand linger near the hilt of her sword as she stepped past the bar. The others moved to claim their belongings, muttering about the oddness of it all. Good instincts. Better cautious than careless.
Bran stayed near the door, his gaze sweeping the room. The faint smell of stew hung in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the timber walls. The quiet felt almost unnatural after the chaos of the city, but there was no sign of anything amiss. Maybe too quiet, but let’s hope it stays that way.
The innkeeper placed bowls of steaming stew on the table, his movements brisk but not hurried. His eyes darted toward the group’s pile of belongings and lingered for a moment before he turned back to fetch a pitcher of ale. Bran caught the glance but chose not to comment. Curious, aren’t you? Wondering what kind of mess we’re about to drag into your inn?
“Help yourselves,” the innkeeper said, setting down the pitcher along with a collection of mismatched mugs. His tone was polite, but he lingered nearby, wiping an already clean section of the bar. Bran noted how the man’s ear tilted slightly in their direction as the group began sorting through their gear. He’s listening. Can’t blame him. If I were him, I’d be doing the same.
Lyra dropped a bundle of rolled-up maps onto the table. “Looks like someone went all out,” she said, untying the string and spreading one open. The rest of the group gathered around as Gareth leaned in, examining it with a raised brow.
“What in the name of all that’s holy is this?” Gareth said, scoffing. He jabbed a finger at the winding, tangled route depicted on the map. “This isn’t a path—it’s a drunken scribble.”
Bran stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. The map showed a labyrinthine trail through dense forests and marshy terrain, skirting every major road. The destination, Shadow Star Keep, was marked with a bold black star at the end of the convoluted path. Hardly a direct route. Someone wants us to take the long way around, and they’re not hiding it.
“Looks like they’re trying to make this as hard as possible,” Lyra said, crossing her arms. Her tone was casual, but Bran could sense the tension beneath it. She’s right. Nothing about this feels straightforward.
“Wait,” Elias said, pointing to a spot on the map in the middle of a swamp labeled ‘Known Dark Lord Outpost’. “That can’t be real. Who writes something like that? And how could they possibly know?”
The group made a collective chuckle, though the humor was edged with unease. “Oh yes,” Lyra said, grinning. “Because every self-respecting dark lord makes sure to label their evil lair for convenience.”
Gareth shook his head. “What’s next? A tavern for their henchmen called ‘The Villain’s Alehouse’? This is absurd.”
Bran, however, couldn’t shake his suspicion. “Absurd or not, it’s on the map for a reason,” he said, his voice low. He glanced at the innkeeper, who quickly averted his gaze and began busying himself with stacking empty mugs. He knows better than to ask. Smart man. “Whoever made these maps wanted us to take this path, or at least head to this supposed outpost.”
Isabella traced the route with her finger, her expression unreadable. “The question is whether it’s a warning... or bait.”
“Or a joke,” Elias muttered, earning a glare from Isabella. “What? It could be.”
Bran exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Regardless, we’ll be wandering through the swamp. Complaining won’t change it. Let’s finish sorting this mess and get some rest.”
The group divided the provisions, their banter gradually fading as the reality of the map’s implications set in. The innkeeper, still lingering in the background, occasionally glanced their way but said nothing. Bran couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze, even as they worked. He’s nervous. Why?
Later, as the stew cooled in their bowls and the pile of extra supplies dwindled, Bran caught himself staring at the map again. Known Dark Lord Outpost. The words felt ridiculous, but the pit in his stomach refused to let them go. Ridiculous mission, ridiculous map. And yet, here we are. What exactly are we walking into?
Author’s notes:
This story started as a D&D one shot I was building. I never finished building it. And I never have time to play D&D.
I’m trying to add some obvious inner monologue to this story. I don’t normally do that. Usually I weave my character’s thoughts into the paragraph as if they are the narrator. I’m not sure I like the inner monologue mostly due to the idea of keeping inner and outer dialogue separate for audio. I’ve been listening to an audio book that uses a lot of inner monologue and I find myself stopping often to think over whether the character said that out loud or not.
Also. And I hope you can’t tell. This story is written by AI. I’ve waited for the 2nd chapter to point it out because I don’t want people immediately ignoring it, just because of that. At least for this experiment. Going forward, I want to be very clear about what is and is not written by AI. I’m not sure if I should just put “Heads up, this chapter is written by AI” on each chapter or if I should put all AI written things under my other RR profile.
What are your thoughts? There was a lot of up front work put in and I’m running this less like an Author and more like a Director and editor.
How to treat AI content.
