The brass bell above the bar rang three times, its familiar tone cutting through the evening conversations with the same respectful authority it had held for decades. But tonight, Gary noticed something different as his family gathered around the expanding table—a particular tension in the way Thorne moved, the careful set of his massive shoulders that spoke of burdens carried from the outside world.
The enchanted furniture performed its weekly dance, chairs finding their places while the table stretched to accommodate their circle. Miriel arrived with a lightness in her step that hadn't been there the week before, still glowing with quiet pride from her magical breakthrough. Dr. Elara looked less exhausted than usual, having had a relatively calm week at the clinic. Pip bounced in with his usual grin, though Gary's experienced eye caught the way he scanned the room—checking exits, cataloging faces, the old habits of someone who'd once needed to know escape routes.
But it was Thorne who drew Gary's attention. The dwarf had cleaned up from his shift at the docks as always, but he carried himself like a mountain bearing storm clouds. His usual tankard of ale sat untouched before him, and his eyes kept drifting toward Gary with an expression the centuries-old bartender recognized all too well.
Someone had something to say and wasn't sure how to say it.
"Right then," Gary said, settling onto his stool with practiced ease. "Who wants to start the round tonight?"
The familiar silence settled over them, but this time it felt less comfortable than usual. Miriel looked ready to share something positive—probably about her week of successfully using smaller magics without panic. Dr. Elara had that thoughtful expression that suggested she'd been processing their last meeting. Pip drummed his fingers on his cider mug in a rhythm that didn't match his usual cheerful energy.
But Gary kept his attention on Thorne, watching the way the dwarf's jaw worked as if he were chewing on words too tough to swallow.
"Thorne," Gary said gently, "something's weighing on you, son. Heavy enough to carry from the docks to my tavern. Want to share the load?"
Thorne's knuckles were white around his tankard. For a moment, Gary thought he might deflect, make a joke about cargo weights or difficult customers. Instead, the dwarf looked up with eyes that held more worry than anger for once.
"Been hearin' things at the yards," he said slowly. "Talk among the workers. Gossip from the merchant quarter." He paused, seeming to wrestle with how much to reveal. "About the Temple of Divine Order. They been... active lately."
The Zone of Truth shimmered softly around them, encouraging honesty without demanding it.
"Active how?" Dr. Elara asked, leaning forward with the sharp attention she usually reserved for medical emergencies.
Thorne's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Heavy-handed. Throwing their weight around more than usual. Making demands, threats even. Some of the dock workers got families who tried to seek help there recently." His eyes found Gary's across the circle. "Gary... is it true?"
The question hung in the air like morning mist, thick with implications Gary wasn't sure he fully grasped. The dock workers' families seeking help from the Order? Threats and demands? His mind immediately jumped to the shadow-cloaked figure who'd visited him three nights ago, the subtle warnings about "unlicensed healing practices" and "spiritual guidance without proper authority."
"Is what true, son?" Gary asked carefully, though his stomach was already sinking with understanding.
"That they're comin' for you. For us. For what we do here." Thorne's voice was steady, but his hands shook slightly. "Word is they don't like competition."
Gary's ale suddenly tasted bitter. He'd hoped the visit had been an isolated incident, maybe even a misunderstanding. But if rumors were spreading through the dock workers—people who heard everything that moved through the city—then this was bigger than he'd realized.
"Aye," he said quietly. "It's true."
The admission seemed to pull the air from the room. Miriel's face went pale, her recent confidence wavering. Pip went very still, his usual fidgeting stopped completely. Dr. Elara's clinical mask slipped, revealing genuine concern underneath.
"They came to see me a few nights back," Gary continued, his voice carrying the weight of decades spent protecting this space and these people. "Not officially, mind you. Just a friendly chat about how some folks might see our little gatherings as... problematic."
"What kind of problems?" Korven asked, his first words of the evening sharp with barely controlled anger.
Gary rubbed his beard, choosing his words carefully. "The kind where centuries-old tavern keepers get visits from people who work in shadows, asking pointed questions about whether I have the proper licenses for spiritual guidance." He met each of their eyes in turn. "The kind where they suggest it might be healthier for everyone if our meetings became less... therapeutic."
"Bastards," Korven muttered, his knuckles cracking as his hands clenched.
But Gary was watching Pip, noticing how the halfling had gone from still to absolutely frozen. There was something in his expression—not just fear, but recognition. The look of someone who'd heard something important and was trying to decide whether to share it.
"There's more, isn't there?" Gary asked gently. "Thorne, what else did you hear at the docks?"
Thorne glanced around the circle before continuing. "Not just about them comin' after you specifically. But about them seekin' to... expand their influence. Make sure anyone needin' help knows to come to them first. And only them."
"Spiritual monopoly," Dr. Elara said grimly. "Control the healing, control the people."
That's when Pip finally moved, shifting in his chair like someone who'd been carrying a secret too long. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen, replaced by the careful expression of someone weighing risks.
"This might be off topic," Pip said quietly, his voice lacking its usual cheerful lilt, "but I think I might know why they're moving now. Why they're suddenly so concerned about competition."
All eyes turned to him, and Gary could see the halfling's internal struggle—the old instincts warring with his loyalty to the group.
"Pip?" Gary prompted gently.
The halfling took a deep breath, as if diving into deep water. "Years ago, before I cleaned up my act, I used to... overhear things. In small spaces where people thought they were alone." His hands trembled slightly around his cider mug. "I heard some Order officials talking once. About how the healing sessions were just the beginning. How they could use what people shared—their secrets, their shames, their fears—to influence nobles, merchants, anyone with power."
The Zone of Truth pulsed softly, confirming his words.
Pip's voice dropped to barely audible. "They're not just seeking to help people. They're seeking power. Real power. The kind that comes from knowing everyone's deepest wounds and exactly how to use them."
The silence that followed was deafening. Gary felt centuries of experience shift into a new pattern as pieces clicked together. Not just institutional competition, but something far more sinister. The Order wasn't trying to eliminate rival healing practices—they were trying to eliminate rival intelligence gathering operations.
"Well," he said finally, his voice carrying a note of grim humor. "That explains the timing."
Around the circle, his family was processing this revelation. Miriel looked sick, probably thinking about how her own magical trauma could be weaponized. Dr. Elara's expression had hardened into something Gary recognized from her stories about the necromancer who'd corrupted her healing. Korven was radiating anger, but it was the cold, focused kind that came before decisive action.
And Thorne... Thorne was nodding slowly, as if Pip's information had confirmed suspicions he'd been harboring.
"So what do we do?" Miriel asked, her voice small but determined.
Gary looked around at his chosen family—these broken, healing, incredibly brave people who'd trusted him with their deepest wounds. People who'd created something beautiful and pure in this tavern, something worth protecting.
"First," he said, "we don't panic. Second, we remember that we're not helpless." He paused, considering how much to reveal. "And third... we remember that even the Order isn't a monolith. They've got good people mixed in with the corrupt ones, and sometimes those good people need allies."
Pip's eyes widened with understanding. "You have someone on the inside."
"I have someone who attended these meetings years ago," Gary admitted. "Someone who knows the difference between healing and exploitation. Someone who might be able to help us understand exactly what we're facing."
The weight in the room shifted again, but this time toward something that might have been hope.
"So we're not just sitting targets," Korven said, and for the first time all evening, there was satisfaction in his voice.
"Never have been, son," Gary replied. "We just needed to understand the game we're playing."
Outside the tavern, the first stars of evening began their watch over a community that had just realized they were about to face their greatest challenge yet. But inside the Waystone, around a table that had seen decades of healing and growth, six people began the careful work of planning not just their defense, but their fight for the right to heal on their own terms.