The Nashkel Inn was quieter than it had been before.
Not empty—but subdued. A handful of patrons occupied scattered tables, voices kept low, conversations circling the same fragments of rumor without ever landing on conclusions. Someone near the hearth murmured a theory about Commander Brage between sips of ale; another shook their head and said nothing.
The smell of cooked meat lingered, but thinner now. The warmth felt earned rather than inviting.
We chose a table in the far corner of the common room, angled so no one could drift too close without effort. Jaheira took the seat with her back to the wall out of habit. Khalid settled beside her, shield leaned carefully against the bench. Imoen climbed onto her chair backward and spun once before stilling, boots hooked around the rung. Rasaad remained standing a moment longer, eyes moving through the room, before sitting with measured ease.
Xan arrived last, already holding a mug.
"Shadowdark Ale," he said, setting it down with faint approval. "Appropriately named. It appears the town has developed a matching temperament."
I reached into my pack and withdrew the parchments.
They felt lighter than I remembered.
I unfolded the first one carefully, smoothing it against the table. Candlelight slid across the surface.
Nothing.
No ink. No impression. No faint scarring where words should have been.
I frowned and turned it, then checked the second. Blank as well.
For a moment, I simply stared at them, waiting for something to assert itself. Heat. Resistance. The faint pull of magic. Anything that suggested the words were only hiding.
There was nothing.
Just parchment.
Imoen leaned in, brow furrowing. "Uh. Did you… already read them?"
"They had writing," I said slowly. "In the chamber. Orders. Names."
I hesitated.
Those names had not been incidental.
They had been connective tissue — meant to carry us forward. A trail of ink leading neatly from the mines to the next escalation. Tranzig. Tazok. The slow widening of a conspiracy already mapped.
It had been clean. Structured. I had known what came next.
These parchments were supposed to ensure that continued.
Now they ensured nothing.
Whatever path had once been waiting for us — written, anticipated, inevitable — had been removed as completely as the ink itself.
Jaheira reached out and ran two fingers along the edge of one sheet, then withdrew her hand. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes sharpened. "They were real."
"Yes," Xan said mildly, lifting his mug. "And now they are not. A remarkably efficient editorial decision."
Rasaad inclined his head slightly. "This is consistent," he said. "With what we witnessed."
No one needed to clarify who he meant.
The man outside the mines had spoken of removing blur. Of challenge. Of meaning earned rather than borrowed.
I folded the parchments again, more carefully this time, and set them aside. The absence felt deliberate—not stolen, but revoked.
Imoen broke the silence first. "Okay," she said. "So the mysterious armored figure rewrites reality, steals our homework, and vanishes. That tracks."
"It does," Xan agreed, taking a sip. He paused, considering the taste. "Mm. Yes. Shadowdark indeed. Like regret, but smoother."
Imoen groaned. "Oh no."
"What?" he asked pleasantly. "You expected improvement?"
He took another drink, posture loosening just a fraction. His expression remained unchanged, but his tone grew almost reflective.
"You see," he continued, "this is the danger of hope. It encourages attachment. Knowledge. Planning." He gestured vaguely toward the blank parchments. "And then, inevitably, disappointment."
Jaheira gave him a flat look. "You're enjoying this."
"I am enjoying the ale," Xan corrected. "The rest is simply confirmation."
Imoen leaned closer to me, lowering her voice. "He's worse when he drinks, isn't he?"
"I believe this is him unfiltered," I said.
Xan smiled faintly. "Ah. To be seen at last."
Rasaad folded his hands together, gaze steady. "Mockery aside," he said, "the message was clear. Order does not emerge on its own. It must be restored."
"And we're the lucky custodians?" Imoen asked.
"For now," Rasaad replied.
She huffed, then tilted her head, studying me sideways.
"So… question," she said. "Was he talking about you knowing things ahead of time?"
Every eye turned to me.
She pressed on before I could answer. "Because—correct me if I'm wrong—you weren't exactly surprised to run into Xzar and Montaron. Or half the other nonsense we've stumbled into since Candlekeep. And then he shows up and starts talking about predictability like it's something you've been borrowing."
I opened my mouth—then closed it again.
"No," I said, a little too quickly. "That's not what he meant."
"Really?" she asked, not accusing. Just curious. "Because it would explain a few things."
I lifted my mug and took a drink—then paused, breath held just a beat too long as the bitterness caught. I swallowed it down anyway.
"It wouldn't explain anything useful," I said. "And it definitely wouldn't help us going forward."
Xan hummed softly. "Ah. Denial. A classic stage."
I shot him a look. He raised his mug in response and took another sip.
"I'm serious," I said, turning back to Imoen. "Whatever advantage you think I had, it's gone. That was the point."
She watched me for a moment longer than necessary, then leaned back in her chair.
"…Okay," she said at last. "Weird answer. But I'll take it."
She didn't push.
That restraint landed heavier than an argument would have.
Jaheira stood.
"We should turn in," she said. "Tomorrow will come quickly."
Khalid nodded, fingers tightening briefly around his mug. "W-we'll be gone b-before then."
Imoen straightened. "You're really leaving at dawn?"
"Yes," Jaheira said simply.
Her gaze settled on me—steady, unflinching. "You know where to look for us. And we know how to find you."
Rasaad inclined his head. Xan raised his mug in what might have been a toast.
"To impermanence," he said.
Jaheira paused, then allowed herself the smallest smile. Khalid followed her toward the stairs.
We remained at the table as the inn carried on quietly around us—ale poured, chairs shifted, someone began a song and thought better of it.
I gathered the blank parchments and slid them back into my pack.
We would move forward without them.
The world, it seemed, had decided that was the point.