Cara shook her head. Levels? Classes? The song itself…her lips twisted bitterly.

“The song helped me, yes, Feren. It didn’t stop anything from happening to me. I wish you were right.”

He hesitated. At last, Feremont glanced at the door and put down his mug.

“Maybe it just wasn’t the right song.”

“Then there’s only one. And we need countless thousands, don’t we?”

The [Singer] almost snapped. But she was too tired to do more than glower. He listened as she went on, restlessly gripping at the bar’s counter.

“I’m a poor player on the stage. I strut and fret my hour, and when it’s done, I step off. Whether my audience cheers and laughs or boos me—I am only a performer. An entertainer. Without the power to change what truly matters.”

“Yet.”

That was all he said. Cara looked up. Feremont met her eyes.

“Yet?”

He repeated the words.

“Yet. You have levels. You have your class, Miss. If there is one justice in this world, even if some people, some classes are better than others—we all level. We all gain power if we strive. If we live.”

He looked past her. Slowly, Feremont glanced towards the back of the bar. He turned to her and smiled.

Wearily. Yet with a deepening core of resolve. He looked at her, and seemed to take some reassurance from her.

Unhappily, Cara thought. Like someone reaffirming a terrible, cynical truth of the world. The man seemed tired. Unhappy. But decided. His smile did not reach his eyes, not really. His eyes—she had seen that look too.

“One person can change fate, Miss Sullivan. If you believe in anything, believe in that. One person can change it all. I think we were meant to talk tonight. You…you are realizing your path. I have long known mine. It is your suffering and that of many that makes this world so cruel. It cannot exist. Even if the battle is hopeless, we have to fight against it, don’t we?”

She didn’t know what he meant then. Cara opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn’t, unsure of what he meant. She thought he would explain, but he pushed himself up abruptly.

“Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”

“Of course.”

Feren—the man walked past Cara. She waited for him to come back, but he was gone for a minute. Then two. Then—the door to the tavern.

“[Necromancer]!”

Cara spun, nearly falling out of her chair. Meltain, the Thronebearers, all who had been in the bar and more, except Ser Vimel—looked around. They were wearing their armor. And half the keep’s guard was behind them.

“Where is he?”

The [Barkeep] had thrown up his hands and dropped the cleaning rag. He searched around.