Chapter 7: THE SPLIT FOCUS
The Silver Heron had become my stage.
Three weeks of nightly performances had earned me the prime evening slot—that golden hour when the tavern filled with merchants flush from successful deals and craftsmen celebrating completed commissions. Good crowds. Generous tips. And most importantly, people who remembered my songs and hummed them on their way home.
Tonight felt different.
I noticed him the moment I stepped onto the small platform that served as a stage. Valdo Marx sat in the corner booth, watching me with eyes that glittered like broken glass. He was handsome in a sharp, careful way—the kind of bard who practiced his smile in mirrors and counted every coin twice.
We'd crossed paths twice before. Both times, he'd been polite in a way that left scratches. Now here he was in my tavern, on my night, and he wasn't alone.
Two men sat at the table nearest the door. Broad-shouldered, rough-handed, with the particular stillness of people waiting for a signal. One had a knife at his belt—not hidden, just casually present. The other kept glancing between me and Valdo.
My Evasion Instinct prickled. Not screaming, not seizing control of my limbs, but alert in a way I'd learned to recognize over the past month of training. Danger was building somewhere in this room, and those two men were connected to it.
Focus. You came here to test something.
I settled my lute against my hip and smiled at the crowd.
"Good evening, Vizima! Who's ready for songs about love, loss, and terrible decisions?"
Laughter. Raised tankards. The familiar warmth of an audience opening up to entertainment.
I launched into my first song—a comedic piece about a fisherman who accidentally caught a nixie and spent the rest of his life apologizing—while splitting my attention.
Half of me performed. I pushed emotional influence into the music, that gentle expansion I'd been practicing for months. The crowd responded, their laughter coming easier, their attention sharpening.
The other half watched.
I reached for the spatial awareness that came with Evasion Instinct, that primal alertness to threat. The two men by the door resolved into sharper focus. I tracked their positions, their body language, the way one of them kept checking the knife at his belt.
And my performance suffered.
A note went flat. I caught it, recovered, but the song's momentum stuttered. The emotional resonance wavered like a candle in wind. A merchant in the front row looked away, his attention drifting to his drink.
Too much. The split is costing me.
I finished the song to decent applause—not the enthusiastic response I'd been building toward. Valdo's smile widened almost imperceptibly.
Second song. A ballad about lost love, something that usually brought tears and generous tips. I pushed harder into the Bardic Resonance while maintaining my threat awareness.
The two men were moving. Slowly, casually, working their way through the crowd toward the stage. One of them had his hand near his belt.
I kept singing. My voice cracked on a high note. The emotional weight of the song, which should have been devastating, landed as merely sad. The crowd was with me, but not moved by me.
Thirty percent effectiveness. Maybe less.
The men reached the edge of the stage as I hit the final verse. I could feel their intention—not murderous, I thought, but definitely violent. A beating, probably. Valdo's way of sending a message about territorial boundaries.
I finished the song and stepped sideways.
The first man's grab closed on empty air. The second lunged, and I was already behind a cluster of patrons, using their bodies as obstacles. My instinct screamed directions: left, back, through the gap, behind the pillar.
"What the—" Someone's drink spilled. A woman yelped as she was jostled.
I emerged near the bar, calling out, "Mister Hennings! I believe these gentlemen are looking for trouble with your furniture!"
The tavern owner—a retired soldier with arms like oak branches—turned from the tap. His eyes found the two men, who were now standing awkwardly in the middle of a confused crowd.
"Out." Hennings didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Both of you. Now."
The men looked toward Valdo's corner booth, but it was empty. The other bard had slipped away while all eyes were on the commotion.
The two thugs left without further argument. Hennings had a reputation for handling problems permanently.
I bought drinks for the patrons who'd inadvertently shielded me—"Sorry about the confusion, friends, some people get very passionate about musical criticism"—and played another song. Something simple, something that didn't require any supernatural assistance. My hands shook slightly on the strings, but I covered it with theatrical flourishes.
After the performance, I sat in a back corner with a cup of wine I'd barely touched.
Two powers active simultaneously. Both weakened by roughly half.
The combination worked. I'd seen the threat, tracked it while performing, escaped when the moment came. But my Bardic Resonance had been gutted—a crowd that should have been weeping barely sniffled. And my Evasion awareness had felt sluggish, like running through water.
Training. I need to train this like a muscle.
The split focus was possible but expensive. If I wanted to use both powers at full effectiveness, I'd need practice. Lots of practice, in situations where failure didn't mean death or ruin.
I thought about the first time I'd played in public, back at the Red Boar in Oxenfurt. That drunk who'd resisted my influence—Andrei, the one who'd almost started a fight. I'd learned something important that night about hostile minds and resistance.
Now I was learning something equally important about my own limits.
Valdo Marx had made an enemy of me, or I of him, or both. The two men by the door were just tools; the real danger was a jealous bard with connections and grudges.
Will he try again? Will he escalate?
I finished my wine and gathered my things. Tomorrow I'd begin practicing the split focus deliberately—low-stakes performances where I maintained threat awareness throughout. Build the mental muscle until it stopped costing so much.
For now, I needed sleep. And possibly a lock for my door.
The walk back to my lodgings felt longer than usual. I kept my Evasion awareness active, scanning shadows and doorways, but nothing emerged.
Valdo Marx was a problem. But he was a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight, I'd survived. That would have to be enough.
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