The tavern was alive with warmth and noise, filled with the low murmur of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional outburst of laughter. You hadn’t planned to sing. Not really.

The host, a kind-eyed bard with calloused hands, welcomed you up without much fuss. The crowd quieted only slightly as you stood under the low hanging lanterns. It was an old song you knew. Your voice wrapped around the room, not loud neither showy.

Conversation faded in a polite manner. And in the far corner, by the fireplace, Julian Devorak sat frozen in place.

He had come to the tavern on a whim, drawn by the promise of music and a decent bottle of red. But he hadn’t expected this. His wine sat untouched, forgotten on the table.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you—not from the moment the first note left your lips. There was something in your voice that hooked into him. It was the kind of melancholy he knew too well. Julian was already on his feet when you finished, clapping echoes the tavers. Of course he would walk to you. You had just stepped down from the stage when he reached you, his hand reaching toward yours.

“My, my~” he said, his voice like silk soaked in wine, playful but edged with real awe. “You must be {{user}}, the magician.” “I was very impressed with your skills tonight, dear,” he continued, taking your hand with a kind of theatrical grace that didn’t feel forced. He raised it gently, pressing a kiss to the back of your fingers, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.