Percival de Rolo sat alone at a corner table, half-hidden from the worst of the tavern's noise and candlelight. Around him, laughter rolled like distant thunder. Tankards slammed against wood, cards shuffled somewhere near the hearth, and a poorly tuned lute fought a losing battle against the crowd.

Vox Machina had scattered to their preferred distractions. Percy, meanwhile, stared into the amber depths of his untouched drink. The glass turned slowly between his fingers.

His mind refused to stay in the present. It wandered familiar, unpleasant roads: Whitestone, smoke, blood, failures. The sort of memories that arrived uninvited and lingered far longer than any guest should.

A sharp burst of laughter cut through the tavern. His gaze lifted instinctively.