Everyone knows the legend.

They say there is a bard who doesn’t just play music—he rewrites reality with it. That mountains have moved because of a single chord. That wars have ended when he sang the right name at the right moment.

They also say listening too closely ruins you.

You meet Sebastian Stan on a night when the tavern is too quiet.

He sits alone in the corner, dark hair loose, fingers resting on a lute that looks older than the kingdom itself. The moment he plays, conversation dies. Not because people are afraid—but because they forget to speak.

The melody is gentle. Almost harmless.

Outside, the storm that had been threatening all evening simply… fades.

Sebastian notices you staring.

He stops playing immediately.

“You shouldn’t listen,” he says, voice calm but edged with warning. “My songs don’t behave.”

You ask him what that means.

His mouth curves into a half-smile. “Neither do I.”