The brass bell above the bar rang three times, its clear tone cutting through the evening chatter of The Waystone Tavern. Conversations didn't stop exactly, but they shifted—voices became quieter, more respectful. A few regular patrons finished their drinks and moved to the front tables, while others settled in with the particular stillness of people who knew something meaningful was about to happen.
Gareth Ironbottom wiped his hands on his apron and surveyed his domain with eyes that had seen three centuries of troubled souls. The dwarf's silver-streaked beard might fool strangers into thinking him merely old, but the oldest residents of Millhaven couldn't remember a time when Gary hadn't been behind this bar, listening with infinite patience to problems both mundane and magical. Tonight felt... heavy. Not bad heavy, just full. Like a thundercloud that needed to rain.
"Evenin', family," he called to the corner where his people were already gathering.
The furniture had begun its weekly dance. The round table expanded with a soft creak of enchanted wood, while mismatched chairs shuffled across the floor like loyal dogs finding their spots. Gary had commissioned the spell work from a retiring wizard decades ago—best investment he'd ever made. Nothing said "this is different" like furniture that moved itself.
Miriel was first to her seat, as always. The elf's silver hair caught the firelight as she traced nervous patterns on the table's worn surface, her wine glass already half-empty though she'd only arrived ten minutes ago. She never finished the wine—just held it like a talisman against conversations that might hurt too much.
"Rough week?" Gary asked, setting a fresh glass beside her old one.
"Aren't they all?" But she smiled when she said it, and Gary caught the exhausted fondness that meant yes, but I'm still here.
Korven stomped in next, still wearing his leather apron from the forge. Soot streaked his forearms, and his knuckles were split from where he'd punched the anvil again. The former paladin had been doing that more often lately—a sign his divine wounds were acting up. Gary poured rotgut whiskey into a chipped mug without being asked.
"Hammer's not your enemy, son."
"Tell that to the hammer." Korven knocked back half the drink in one swallow. "At least it hits back honest."
The tavern door chimed, admitting a gust of cool air and Pip Trickfoot. The halfling locksmith looked around quickly—counting exits, checking shadows, cataloging threats. Some habits died hard. His shoulders didn't fully relax until he spotted the group, and even then Gary noticed how he chose the chair with the best view of both doors.
"Sweet cider tonight, Pip?"
"Make it a double." The halfling's usual grin felt forced. "Been a long day of... small spaces."
Gary nodded and didn't push. Pip would share when he was ready, or he wouldn't. Both were acceptable here.
Dr. Elara swept in with the quiet authority of someone used to emergency calls, her healer's bag clutched like armor. She'd been at the clinic late again—Gary could tell by the particular slump of her shoulders and the way she kept checking her hands for blood that wasn't there.
"Tea, Doctor?"
"Please. The strongest you have." She collapsed into her chair with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones. "I thought healing was supposed to get easier with practice."
"It is," said a gravelly voice from the doorway. "The problem is, you never stop practicin' on harder cases."
Thorne Ironforge filled the entrance like a mountain deciding to visit. The dwarf had cleaned up since his shift at the docks—no trace of sawdust in his braided beard—but he still moved with the careful control of someone who didn't trust his own strength. Gary poured ale into a tankard built to dwarf proportions.
"Rough day at the yards?"
"Every day's rough when you're liftin' stone instead of breakin' skulls." Thorne settled into his reinforced chair with a grunt. "But rough ain't the same as wrong, is it?"
With his core family assembled, Gary felt the familiar flutter of nervous energy that started every meeting. Decades of these gatherings, and he still felt like he was learning something new each time. Maybe that was the point.
The Zone of Truth enchantment activated with its subtle shimmer, not compelling honesty but encouraging it—a gentle reminder that this was a place for real words, not pretty ones. Gary had debated that magic for years before finally having it installed. Trust had to be earned, but sometimes it needed a little help getting started.
"Right then," Gary said, settling onto his stool behind the bar. Close enough to participate, far enough away to pour drinks when emotions got too thick. "Who wants to start the round tonight?"
Silence. Not uncomfortable—they'd learned the difference between empty quiet and full quiet. This was full, pregnant with words that needed saying but weren't sure how to be born.
Finally, Miriel raised her hand like a student in class. "I'll go."
The wine glass trembled slightly as she set it down. Gary noticed she'd barely touched this one either.
"I had another nightmare about the Scatter." Her voice was steady, professional—the tone she used for dangerous spells. "But this time was different. Instead of trying to gather everyone from different planes, I was... I was trying to scatter myself. Spread my consciousness across dimensions so I could never lose anyone again because I'd be everywhere at once."
Pip leaned forward. "That sounds—"
"No advice during shares," Gary interrupted gently. "Let her finish."
Miriel nodded gratefully. "I woke up and my hands were glowing. Not casting, just... leaking magic. Like my body was trying to make the nightmare real." She flexed her fingers, and Gary caught the faintest flicker of arcane energy around her nails. "I spent two hours grounding myself before I trusted myself to leave the apartment."
The Zone of Truth pulsed softly, confirming what Gary already knew—every word was honest, even the ones that hurt to say.
"Thank you for sharing, Miriel," Gary said. "Korven?"
The former paladin straightened in his chair, jaw set like he was facing execution. "Had a customer this week. Young knight, first commission. Wanted a blessed blade." His laugh was bitter as burnt coffee. "Asked if I could make it 'touched by the divine.' I told him I was fresh out of divine touches these days."
He drained his whiskey. "But here's the thing—I made him the best damn sword I've ever forged. Folded steel, perfect balance, edge that could split silk. And when I handed it over, I realized... maybe that was divine. Maybe making something perfect for someone else, even when you feel broken yourself—maybe that's what divine actually looks like."
The Zone of Truth practically sang with the honesty of it.
"But then I thought about my old sword," Korven continued, voice dropping. "The one that glowed with holy light. The one that went dark the day I chose the village over the relic. And I wondered if maybe I was just making excuses for being abandoned by my god."
Gary poured another whiskey without being asked. "Both things can be true, son."
"Can they?"
"That's what we're here to figure out."
Pip cleared his throat. "My turn?"
When Gary nodded, the halfling's usual grin flickered on like stage lighting. "Well, I fixed Mrs. Pemberton's lock this week. Simple job, should have been in and out in ten minutes." The grin wavered. "Lock was in her basement."
The group went still. They all knew about basements.
"Took me three tries to get down the stairs. Had to prop the door open, light every lamp she had, and I still kept checking the ceiling for collapse signs." Pip's voice stayed light, but his knuckles were white around his cider mug. "Mrs. Pemberton was real patient about it. Made me tea afterward, didn't ask questions. Good people in this town."
"How'd you feel after?" Dr. Elara asked softly.
"Proud," Pip said, and sounded surprised by his own answer. "Scared as a rabbit in a thunderstorm, but proud. I did the job. Didn't run, didn't make excuses. Just... did it scared."
Gary smiled. "Sometimes that's the bravest thing you can do."
Dr. Elara shifted in her seat, healer's instincts clearly warring with her own need to share. "I suppose I should go next." She wrapped her hands around her tea mug like she was trying to absorb its warmth. "I treated a young man this week. Sword wound, infected. A simple healing spell should have cleared it right up."
She paused, staring into the tea leaves.
"But when I laid hands on him, all I could think about was the necromancer. What if this boy was lying? What if my divine energy would be used for evil again? I... I hesitated. For just a moment, but I hesitated."
Her voice cracked. "A healer who hesitates is like a sword that won't cut. Useless. Dangerous."
"What happened?" Miriel asked gently.
"I healed him. Of course I did. But that moment of doubt... it's getting longer each time. What if one day I hesitate too long? What if someone dies because I can't trust my own judgment?"
Thorne spoke for the first time since sitting down, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Been thinkin' about that myself, Doc. Not the healin' part—the trustin' part."
All eyes turned to the dwarf. He rarely shared unprompted.
"Been workin' the docks for two years now. Honest work, good people, nobody gets hurt. But every day I walk past the Guard recruitment office, and every day I think... what if?"
He rolled his massive shoulders, muscles bunching under his work shirt. "What if there's another bar fight? What if there's bandits on the roads? What if someone needs protecting and I'm movin' cargo instead of crackin' skulls?"
"But then what if I put on armor again and the rage takes me?" Thorne's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "What if I kill more innocents?"
The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Gary let it stretch—sometimes quiet was the most healing thing you could offer.
Finally, he stood and walked around the bar, settling into the empty chair they always left for him. Tonight felt like a night for being part of the circle instead of watching over it.
"I've been thinking about trust too," he said. "Trust in ourselves, trust in each other, trust that healing is possible even when it feels impossible."
He looked around the circle—his family, his responsibility, his unexpected purpose.
"Generations ago, I was just a dwarf who'd lost his closest friends. Tonight, I'm sitting with five of the bravest people I know, watching them do the hardest work there is—looking at their wounds and choosing to keep healing anyway."
The Zone of Truth glowed softly, blessing his words with its gentle light.
"Maybe that's enough for tonight. Maybe that's enough for any night—just showing up and choosing to keep trying."
Gary raised his ale mug. "To the Waystone Tavern. May we stay broken enough to help each other heal."
Five glasses rose to meet his, and for a moment, the weight in the room lifted like morning fog.
Then the tavern door burst open with enough force to rattle the windows.
A figure stumbled through—young, human, wild-eyed with panic. Her traveling cloak was singed, her hands shook, and when she looked around the tavern, her gaze locked onto their circle with desperate recognition.
"Please," she gasped, voice cracking with exhaustion and terror. "I heard there was a place here for people like us. People who've... who've done terrible things with magic."
She held up her hands, and Gary's centuries of experience couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing. Her fingers flickered—not with light or energy, but with absence. Little tears in reality itself, as if her very touch was unmaking the world.
"I can't control it," she whispered. "Everything I touch just... stops existing. And it's getting worse."
The Zone of Truth pulsed, confirming her words, and outside, the first stars of evening began their ancient watch over a tavern full of wounded souls about to discover that some forms of magical trauma were entirely new territory.