Upstairs, the hallway had gone still in the way only violence could manage.
The body lay where it had fallen, awkwardly turned, one arm bent beneath him as though he'd simply missed a step. Blood had already begun to darken the floorboards, creeping outward in thin, patient lines.
Montaron crouched beside it, expression flat.
Not looting—checking.
He rifled through Tarnesh's coat with quick, efficient movements, fingers pausing only when they met resistance. A hidden pocket. A folded scrap of parchment, tucked deeper than coin ever would be.
"Hmph," he muttered.
Xzar appeared at the far end of the hall rubbing at his eyes, hair askew, expression vaguely affronted.
"Really," he muttered, blinking at the body. "I sleep through one commotion and everyone decides to have a memorable morning without me."
Montaron didn't look up. He simply thrust the parchment toward him.
"Read it."
Xzar brightened instantly. "Ahhh," he said, taking it with exaggerated care. "Always a pleasure to be valued for my literacy."
His eyes skimmed the page.
Then slowed.
"Well now," he murmured. "How industrious."
I felt Jaheira's attention sharpen without her moving.
Xzar tilted the parchment slightly, not offering it—just allowing proximity. "It appears our charming friend was promised compensation," he continued lightly. "For the swift death of a certain individual. Fostered. Recently departed Candlekeep. Last known to be traveling."
His gaze flicked to me. Lingered.
"Two hundred gold," he added. "Proof required. Silence encouraged."
Montaron snorted. "Two hundred?"
He shook his head, disgusted. "That's barely worth sharpening a blade. By the time you factor risk, effort, and the walking problem of his friends—" He waved vaguely in my direction. "—you'd lose coin."
"Some people," Xzar said pleasantly, "value obedience more than profit."
"Idiots," Montaron replied.
Jaheira said nothing.
But the air had shifted—quietly, irrevocably.
Downstairs, the inn resumed itself in pieces.
Not all at once—just enough to function again. A bench scraped softly back into place. A mug was set down with care instead of force. A handful of early risers kept to their breakfasts in low voices, keeping their eyes on their plates rather than the stairs.
Morning at the Friendly Arm was never loud to begin with.
A woman hovered near the bottom of the stairs, wringing her hands against her apron, eyes darting between the broken beams overhead and the blood darkening the floor.
"By the gods," she murmured. "All this… over Tarnesh?"
The name hung there, fragile.
"Tarnesh?" Khalid echoed quietly, more confirmation than question.
The way she said it suggested disbelief more than fear.
"I mean—he was always so pleasant," she continued, almost apologetically. "Quick with a joke. Clever. Always had something ready to say when he came down for breakfast." A weak laugh slipped out. "He'd only been here a few days—just long enough to make a good impression." She gestured helplessly toward the ruined stairwell. "You'd never think someone like that would— not this."
Her words trailed off as a second figure stepped out from a narrow doorway near the back of the common room.
Short.
Broad-shouldered despite it.
A gnome in a finely kept coat, boots polished even at this hour, eyes bright with the sort of alertness that suggested he missed very little—and enjoyed that fact immensely. He stopped just inside the common room and craned his neck back, studying the damage above with open, unabashed interest.
"Well," he said mildly, "that explains the noise."
He did not look at the body first.
He looked at the ceiling.
At the torn beams.
The fractured stone.
The places where repairs would require creativity as much as coin.
"Charming fellow," the gnome added, almost cheerfully. "Always smiling. That should've been my first warning."
The woman blinked at him. "You think so?"
"Oh, absolutely," he replied. "Anyone that likable is either selling something or hiding something." He sighed, then shrugged. "Usually both."
Jaheira stepped forward just enough to bring herself into his line of sight.
"Bentley Mirrorshade," she said calmly. "We regret the disruption."
The gnome's expression brightened at the sound of his name. He dipped into a brief, theatrical bow, illusion magic flickering faintly at the edges of his outline—more habit than necessity.
"Regret noted," Bentley said. "Timing is unfortunate, but I do appreciate honesty before breakfast."
He glanced up the stairs again, expression sobering just a touch.
"The Friendly Arm does not tolerate violence on its floors," he continued, tone light but firm. "Ordinarily, I'd be having a very different conversation." A beat. "As it stands, we'll settle for repairs and discretion."
Khalid stepped forward immediately.
"We'll cover the damages," he said. No stutter this time. "All of them."
Bentley studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp with curiosity rather than suspicion.
Then he grinned.
"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once. "That makes this a tragedy instead of a mess."
He turned back toward the common room. "Nessie, let the kitchen know breakfast will be delayed. And if anyone asks—" He paused, smirk deepening. "—tell them the excitement was complimentary."
The world resumed itself in small, practical motions.
Jaheira waited until Bentley turned away before speaking again.
"Not here," she said quietly.
It wasn't a request.
She inclined her head toward the far side of the room, where a narrow alcove opened onto the outer wall—close enough to the door to leave quickly, far enough from the stairs to avoid curious ears.
Khalid moved first, shield lowered now but not slung. He glanced once toward me and Imoen, then followed without comment.
Imoen leaned in close as we walked. "That's the 'come talk without an audience' look," she murmured.
"From her?" I asked.
"From people who survive," she replied, already moving.
The alcove smelled faintly of old smoke and spilled ale. Sunlight filtered in through a narrow window, dust motes drifting lazily in the beam—unbothered by what had happened minutes earlier.
Jaheira turned to face us fully for the first time.
Up close, her presence was quieter. No spellwork humming. No visible tension. Just focus—contained, deliberate.
"We were not watching you at random," she said. "Nor because of anything you've done."
"I was hoping to find you," I said quietly. "So… no. I didn't think it was random either."
Jaheira inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the interruption without breaking stride.
"Gorion intended to introduce us," she said. "When the time was right."
She paused, just long enough for the absence in that sentence to speak for itself.
"The fact that you arrived alone tells me the rest."
That mattered more than it should have.
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the common room, where the last of the morning's quiet had settled into routine.
"We came early," she continued. "And we waited."
Khalid nodded. "H-he was careful," he said softly. "A-always thinking ahead."
Jaheira went on. "While we waited, others passed through."
She glanced toward the stairs—not at the damage, but at the path people took when they meant to leave.
"One in particular," she said. "A young man. A blacksmith's apprentice from Beregost. Talkative. Restless." A pause. "His work had slowed to nothing."
Khalid nodded again. "N-no iron," he said. "No shipments. His master c-couldn't keep him on."
Imoen frowned. "That's… not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be," Jaheira replied calmly.
She turned back to me.
"He spoke of Nashkel," she said. "Of shipments delayed. Of iron growing scarce—not because it fails, but because it no longer arrives when it should." Her tone remained even. "He was not the first to mention it. Only the most recent."
Khalid shifted his weight. "Merchants. Caravan guards. E-everyone tells it a little differently."
"But the shape of the story stays the same," Jaheira finished.
I felt something settle—not dread, not urgency.
Direction.
"And you were waiting for someone heading south?" I asked.
Jaheira met my gaze. "For someone who would listen."
Imoen crossed her arms. "You could've just asked."
"We could have," Jaheira agreed. "But questions attract attention. Watching does not."
That answer sat uncomfortably—but it made sense.
"Nashkel is not far," Jaheira continued. "Close enough to matter. Far enough that disruptions are tolerated longer than they should be." She paused, just briefly. "When iron stops moving, it is rarely the first imbalance. It is simply the one people notice."
The druid in her spoke then—not loudly, not dramatically. Just as a statement of fact.
Khalid glanced toward the door, then back to us. "If the r-rumors are nothing, you lose time. If they're true—" He stopped, then finished quietly. "—you gain warning."
The alcove felt smaller suddenly.
Jaheira did not press.
She simply waited—still, attentive—in a way that suggested she was used to letting others reach their own conclusions.
"We intend to travel south," she said at last. "You may do as you please."
Her eyes remained on me.
"But if you are looking for answers," she added, "that path aligns with what Gorion hoped you would become."
Not an order.
Not a command.
A quiet calibration.
Silence followed.
Not forced.
Not heavy.
Just waiting to see who would move first.
A voice drifted in from behind us.
"Oh good," Xzar said brightly. "We're all saying Nashkel out loud now."
He tilted his head, studying Jaheira with open curiosity.
"Which means," he went on pleasantly, "that nothing has changed since we mentioned it earlier—only that the reasons have multiplied."
Montaron appeared behind him, scowl already in place—still barefoot, still half-dressed for trouble.
"Except now everyone else has reasons," he said flatly.
Jaheira regarded them both without visible reaction.
"And you decided this… when?" she asked.
"Oh, days ago," Xzar replied. "Before the screaming. Before the roots. Possibly before breakfast."
Imoen stared. "You're kidding."
"Rarely," Xzar said. "I find sincerity far more disturbing."
Montaron sighed. "We go where trouble goes," he said flatly. "Coin follows."
Silence settled again—but it was different now.
Looser.
The decision had stopped being theoretical.