Page 152 of The Dark Lord’s Guide to Honeymooning (and Other Acts of Tyranny)

“Much,” someone added, to general laughter.

Thorne was on his fourth ale—not drunk, he never got truly drunk, but definitely relaxed. When Elowen’s gaze swept past our table, he stood before I could stop him.

“Thorne—” I started.

“I have something.” He moved to the performance space with the deliberate care of a man who knew exactly how steady he was and wanted everyone else to know it too.

Keld leaned over. “Your lieutenant about to embarrass himself?”

“Probably.” Though I’d never actually heard Thorne sing. For all I knew, he sounded like a dying cat.

Thorne cleared his throat, and the room quieted. When he spoke, his voice rumbled as usual, roughened by years of shouting orders across battlefields.

“This is a soldier’s song,” he said simply.

Then he began to sing. The ballad was old, something about a soldier’s last night before battle. Simple words, but delivered with genuine emotion that caught me completely off guard.

“The fire burns low, the wine runs red,

Tomorrow’s dawn brings steel and dread,

But tonight we’re warm, tonight we’re whole,

Tomorrow can’t touch a soldier’s soul.”

The tavern went absolutely silent. Even the demon stopped mid-drink.

Thorne continued through three more verses, each one building on the last. His deep voice transformed the simple ballad into something that made my heart ache. I’d heard this song before, years ago, sung by men who knew they were marching to their deaths. Thorne sang it like he’d been one of them.

When he finished, the silence stretched for three heartbeats before the room erupted. Elowen was beaming, her eyes bright with appreciation. Keld looked like someone had just stolen his favorite knife.

“Well,” Elowen said as Thorne returned to our table, “I think we have a new favorite.”

Thorne sat down, looking pleased with himself in that subtle way that suggested he knew exactly what he’d done. “The bard seems charmed.” He winked at her, and she smiled.

“Bastard,” Keld muttered into his ale.

I was about to comment when I felt the building’s attention turning toward me like a massive, invisible eye. My ale suddenly tasted flat. My chair developed an uncomfortable ridge that definitely hadn’t been there before. And despite sitting close to the fire, the warmth seemed to stop just short of reaching me.

Keld followed my gaze toward Elowen, who was looking at me expectantly. “You’re next.”

“I don’t perform.”

“The building doesn’t care.” He gestured around the room, where patrons were starting to glance my way without quite meaning to. “Istvan’s grandmother was a proper hearth-spirit. Wouldn’t let anyone leave her table until they’d eaten thirds and shared a story. The building has the same attitude about participation.”

I could destroy the building. Turn it to rubble with a thought. But the petty hearth-spirit magic would probably just attach itself to the debris and follow me for weeks, making my life incrementally more annoying. Plus—and this disturbed me—I was curious what would happen if I participated.

“Fine.” I stood, ignoring Thorne’s surprised expression. “But I’m not singing.”

The room went completely quiet as I moved to the performance space. Recognition rippled through the crowd—the Dark Lord, Terror of the Western Realms, standing in their tavern like any other patron. The tension was thick enough to cut.

I chose an old war chant from my mercenary days, something my first company used to recite before particularly brutal battles. The words were rhythmic, describing the calm before violence with honesty.

“Steel weighs heavy in the hand,

Heavier still in another man,

The calm before the storm’s first break,