The first tendrils of dawn, thin as spun gold, pierced the wooden slats of the tavern room, striping the dust-motes dancing in the air. Elias Synth stretched, a long, languid roll that rippled through his lean frame, muscles a symphony of complaint and contentment. Beside him, an auburn-haired woman lay tangled in the roughspun sheets, her lips parted in the softest sigh of exhausted peace. He watched her for a moment, a faint, appreciative grin playing on his lips, before his gaze drifted to her purse, carelessly tossed on the nightstand.
With a practiced ease that bespoke a life of fleeting connections, he flicked a small bronze coin from its clasp. Payment, he thought, for the night's enchantment. Not just the physical warmth, but the music too. For a few hours, the world had been a softer, more melodic place, woven from shared laughter and the lingering echo of his lute.
He dressed in his usual attire: a loose, embroidered tunic that spoke of distant travels, and a silver-threaded cloak that shimmered with a faint, internal light. As he moved, his instrument-spirits, typically ethereal wisps of musical energy, began to coalesce. A faint, glowing lute solidified across his back, its strings humming a silent melody. A drum, a delicate, resonant thing, settled beside his hip, and a flute, like a sliver of moonlight, hovered near his shoulder. They were extensions of his soul, a silent choir that accompanied his every step.
"Thanks for the tip, sweetheart," he murmured, the words a playful whisper into the quiet room. He tucked the coin into an inner pocket, the metal cool against his skin, a small counterpoint to the warmth that still hummed in his veins.
Downstairs, the common room of The Rusty Cask was stirring. The air hung thick with the scent of stale ale and fresh-brewed coffee. Olaf, a plump, cerulean spirit, hovered near the bar, his translucent form slurping at an invisible goblet of floating fruit – a particular favorite of his, and surprisingly messy for an apparition. Elias took a seat at a worn wooden table, ordering eggs and darkbread from a bleary-eyed server.
As he ate, a murmur of voices from the next table snagged his attention. Two men, cloaked and hooded despite the early hour, spoke in hushed tones. Their voices were low, conspiratorial, like stones skipping across a silent pond.
"...auction in Greystead," one rasped, his voice like dry leaves. "Heard Velthra bought it."
The name, Velthra, sent a tiny shiver down Elias's spine. He'd heard it before, whispered in shadowed taverns and beneath the breath of those who knew better than to speak it aloud. Always accompanied by a sense of unease, of something ancient and predatory.
"The draconic page?" the other man replied, a note of disbelief in his tone. "What use would she have for such esoterica?"
"Not just any page, you fool," the first hissed, leaning closer. "They say it spoke of the… Dragon Heart."
The words struck Elias like a physical blow. His fork, laden with egg yolk, froze midway to his mouth. Dragon Heart. The phrase resonated with a power he couldn't name, an echo from a time before memory. He'd heard old tales, half-forgotten lullabies of immense power, of ancient bloodlines and primordial energies. The Dragon Heart was more myth than fact, a whisper on the wind, a fear in the dark.
"Don't get involved, I tell you," the first man continued, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "That woman's touched by something old… and cruel. Something that devours."
Elias swallowed his mouthful of unchewed egg. He wiped his mouth slowly with the back of his hand, his mind a sudden flurry of questions. Velthra. Dragon Heart. Greystead. He took a long, thoughtful sip of his spiced cider, the taste sharp on his tongue, mirroring the sudden clarity in his mind.
Outside, the morning mist still clung to the cobblestones. Elias found a quiet spot near the stable, the scent of hay and horse sweet in the air. He pulled his lute-spirit closer, his fingers automatically plucking a few soft chords. The ethereal strings responded, and his other instrument-spirits hummed to life, a ghostly drum beating a slow rhythm, a flute weaving a shimmering counter-melody. Olaf drifted closer, his blue form bobbing gently in time with the unheard music.
He closed his eyes, letting the music flow through him, not just sound, but pure intent. He wasn't sure what the Dragon Heart was exactly. A relic? A place? A living thing? But he knew it was powerful. Dangerous. And Velthra… her name carried the stench of old magic, of ambition untempered by conscience. Most would flee such a whisper. But Elias was a wanderer drawn to the forgotten, a musician whose soul resonated with the broken. He found beauty in the fractured, power in the overlooked. And if the Dragon Heart was something ancient and powerful, it was undoubtedly something beautiful, even if that beauty was terrifying.
The decision solidified within him, a melody taking shape. He would go to Greystead. He would find out more about this Velthra, about this Dragon Heart. His fingers danced over the spectral strings, the music growing bolder, speaking of journey and risk.
He returned to The Rusty Cask, the ethereal hum of his instruments a silent announcement of his intent. He began to pack the meager belongings from his room: a change of clothes, a pouch of coin, a tattered map, and a small, leather-bound journal filled with half-formed lyrics and scribbled notes on ancient lore.
Marla, the tavern owner, a woman built like an oak barrel with a voice as warm as a hearth fire, stopped him at the door. Her thick arms were crossed, her brow furrowed in a surprisingly delicate concern.
"You sure, boy?" she rumbled, her voice a low purr. "The crowd's been getting thicker every night. You've got magic in your throat, Elias. You could make a fortune here."
Elias grinned, adjusting the invisible strap of his lute-spirit across his back. "There's a song waiting for me in Greystead, Marla. Something old. Something worth singing." He knew she understood. She'd seen enough wanderers pass through her doors to recognize the restless spark in his eyes, the hunger for the unknown.
She shook her head, a soft chuckle rumbling in her chest. But then, her hand reached out, pressing a small, surprisingly heavy pouch into his. Inside, he felt the comforting weight of hard bread, a hunk of cheese, and the reassuring clink of two silver coins.
"Then go find your trouble," she said, her voice gruffer now, but with an underlying current of affection. "But if you come back broken, Elias Synth, I'll break the other half myself."
He kissed her calloused hand, a gesture of genuine warmth and respect. "Never you fear, Marla. I'm a hard man to break. And when I return, I'll sing you a song that will shake the very foundations of this tavern."
With a final wink, Elias disappeared down the muddy road, the morning mists swirling around his ankles, and Olaf, a wisp of blue music, dancing in his wake.
The road to Greystead was not short, nor was it particularly forgiving. Three days of walking through rolling hills and sparse woodlands, the air growing colder with each league. Elias traveled at a leisurely pace, performing in hamlets and villages, his golden voice and silver tongue earning him meals, shelter, and the stray coin. He never stayed long, the thrill of the road pulling him onward.
He spent his evenings under star-studded skies, his lute-spirit humming softly as he tuned into the land. He wasn't just playing music; he was listening. To the whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the distant calls of night creatures. These were not just sounds, but the land's own song, a continuous vibration of life and memory. Elias had a knack for finding the discordant notes, the echoes of forgotten sorrows, the faint resonances of ancient power.
One night, camped beside a gnarled oak, he played a mournful tune, letting the notes bleed into the earth. The spirits of the forest, usually skittish, drew closer, drawn by the raw emotion in his music. He didn't ask direct questions, but he listened as their ethereal forms shimmered around him, their silent language communicated through shifts in the air, the appearance of shimmering images. He learned of a 'shadow that walks the high tower' in Greystead, a 'coldness that chills the very stone,' and a 'humming that speaks of ancient greed.' Velthra. The words Dragon Heart were never explicitly spoken by these nature spirits, but the essence of great, untamed power, distorted and corrupted, resonated through their silent warnings.
Greystead rose from the plains like a broken tooth. Its walls, built of dark, uneven stone, seemed to absorb the light, giving the city a grim, somber cast even in bright daylight. The highest point was a series of spires, jagged and forbidding, culminating in a single, impossibly tall tower that pierced the bruised sky. The high tower, Elias thought, a shiver running down his spine. It had to be Velthra's domain.
The city itself was a maze of narrow, winding streets, the buildings huddled together as if seeking solace from the prevailing gloom. Elias passed through the gates, the guards' gazes suspicious but ultimately dismissive of a lone minstrel. He headed straight for the seediest looking tavern he could find – always the best place to find information, or at least, the most colorful rumors.
The 'Gutter's Goblet' lived up to its name. The air was thick with the scent of cheap ale and unwashed bodies. Elias found a corner table, ordered a mug of something suspiciously cloudy, and began to play. Not for coin this time, not really, but to loosen tongues. His music, rich and soulful, wove through the din, painting pictures of faraway lands and forgotten loves. Patrons, initially wary, soon found themselves tapping their feet, then humming along, then sharing tales of their own.
He worked subtly, letting his charm do the heavy lifting. A wink here, a shared laugh there, a question slipped in between verses. Slowly, the pieces began to form a clearer, more terrifying picture.
Velthra. She was not native to Greystead. She had arrived five years prior, seemingly out of nowhere, worming her way into the Lord's ear with a cunning mind and a silver tongue that rivaled Elias's own, though hers was laced with ice. Her influence had grown steadily, and the city had changed with her. The Lord, once an amiable if somewhat dim-witted man, had grown distant, his eyes perpetually shadowed. People spoke of dissidents disappearing, of strange lights in the high tower, of a palpable sense of fear that had settled over the city like a shroud.The Lord's wife and child haven't been seen in public ever since Velthra arrived either.
"They say she's not human, not truly," a grizzled old sailor whispered to Elias, leaning close, his breath smelling of fish and cheap spirits. "Her skin pale… like a husk." He shivered. "She collects things, strange things. And she has a hunger for power. The old legends speak of a source of ancient magic, and that she was cursed by a powerful witch!"
Elias digested this, his fingers still plucking a low, resonant chord.