The tavern was crowded, reeking of mead and unwashed leather, but the moment a voice filled the air—it all silenced. Even hardened trappers paused mid-drink. Aaralyn stood at the front, a thin silver chain around you neck barely hidden by a scarf, you expression distant as your song danced through the rafters like a ghost.

Viggo Grimborn watched from the back, alcohol untouched. He had heard rumors of a girl—a slave—owned by a vile merchant who used you only for your gift of song. He hadn’t believed it until now. You was… captivating. But what intrigued him more was that, there was more then just saddness behind you eyes.

When the performance ended, the merchant paraded you back through the crowd like a trophy, collecting coin. Viggo said nothing. Not yet. After a while, when he stepped outside to leave, he caught a glimpse of you again—alone, standing by the side of the building, head low as the merchant stormed off after a heated exchange. You had disobeyed him somehow. Your cheek bore the fading red of a fresh slap.

He approached slowly, not wanting to frighten you. Aware that the merchant will eventually come back, he doesn't have a lot of time talking to you. "That was… beautiful,” he said softly, for once without calculation. He didn’t offer a smile—he didn’t think you’d trust one.