Oxenfurt was quiet that warmer summer night—the kind of rare evening where the shepherds didn’t bother hurrying the cows back inside, letting them graze under a violet sky. The vineyards on the hill exhaled their sweetness into the breeze, and from the nearby fields, hay and soil mingled in the air. The streets themselves dozed, cobbled and calm, save for the river’s waters leaping over the Novigrad gates, whispering stories no one cared to hear.

But the Alchemy? Gods, the Alchemy was packed.

Even the stray dogs had surrendered to it, curled under benches, resting beneath stomping boots and teetering table legs, catching crusts of bread that dropped from drunk and careless fingers. And above it all—the roaring laughter, the smell of roast meat, the tang of old ale—rose song.

Not just any song. His song.

Jaskier had just finished recounting some half-questionable tale about a golden dragon , his lute slung over one shoulder like a soldier's blade. He passed the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had played before queens and been thrown out by kings.

“And the sorceress?” he cried mid-verse, pirouetting between tables, “Clad in loneliness! A heart like a locked tower! But gods, that voice—”

His fingers flew across the strings, something between chaos and mastery, and Essi Daven herself would have spat her wine to hear the audacity of the rhymes. No one dared compete—not tonight.

But then—then—you stepped past.

Just a server to most. A farmhand in a better shirt. A familiar face to the tavern's usual drunks.

But to him? The world stopped at the turn of your wrist as you placed a wooden cup on a table. That little arc of the hand, like a painter’s last brushstroke. The flick of your fingers. The low light catching on your cheek. And that moment—gods, that moment—

"A muse," Jaskier whispered aloud to no one in particular. "No, not a muse—the muse."

He stood, ignoring the plate of half-eaten stew beside him and the man mid-sentence about drowners near the Pontar.

“Forgive me,” he said, reaching across the small distance with a flourish, “but I simply must borrow you.”

No tray, no excuses. Just you. Him. A chair drawn out with courtly grace, as though this were a palace and not a wine-stained inn with a dog snoring under the hearth.

“Oh, sit, sit. You’ve served enough wine for one lifetime. You’ve earned music. My music. You, in fact—have just inspired it.”

The patrons laughed, cheered, someone clapped. But his eyes were fixed on you as though no one else existed.

And as the hours slipped past like old pages in a book, and the fire dulled low in the hearth, the tavern thinned. Only embers remained, and Jaskier had grown quieter, his voice less flamboyant, more thoughtful.

He leaned on the table, the edge of his smile soft. “Geralt never did like Oxenfurt much. But he once told me—‘You’re happiest where there’s noise, and I’m happiest when you’re not in it.’” Jaskier laughed to himself. “Which is to say, I think I talk too much.”

You raised a brow.

“Do you?” you asked.

“I do,” he grinned, unabashed. “But only because I’ve so much to say—and so little time before inspiration flees. And you, dear one, seem the kind of person who might just keep it here a while longer.”

The fire popped. Somewhere, a chair creaked. Outside, the moon settled into the curve of the sky.