The Ballad of Carlia Havannah 1 & 2

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Chapters 1 & 2

The Ballad of Carlia Havannah

The city of Jugathon was cloaked in the dark embrace of a storm, the rain hammering down in a relentless fury as wind howled through the cobbled streets. The port city, usually bustling with trade and gossip, was hushed under the weight of the weather, but one place remained alive with light and laughter—The Silver Chalice Tavern.

Inside, the warmth of crackling hearths and the scent of spiced meats filled the air. The tavern was crowded, with sailors, merchants, and travelers seeking refuge from the storm. They all huddled together under the wooden beams of the bustling inn, their cups overflowing with ale and their minds momentarily taken from the grimness of the night. But what kept the room truly alive was not the fire or the drink—it was the enchanting voice of Carlia Havannah.

Carlia, a strikingly beautiful woman of twenty-two, was seated on a low stage near the hearth, strumming a finely crafted lute and singing a ballad that held the crowd spellbound. Her long, flowing blonde hair shimmered in the firelight, cascading like a golden waterfall over her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as they glanced over the crowd, and her voice, clear and lilting, wove tales of distant lands, daring heroes, and lost loves.

She was no ordinary bard. Born in the grand capital city of Shaalizar, Carlia had been raised in the heart of culture and civilization. Her father had been a merchant of modest wealth, and her mother, a retired performer who had once graced the finest theaters of the city. Carlia inherited her mother’s talent and beauty, and from an early age, it was clear she was destined for the stage.

By the time she was sixteen, Carlia had begun performing at local inns and taverns across Shaalizar, captivating audiences with her voice and presence. Word of her talent spread quickly, and soon, she was a fixture in the capital’s more prominent establishments. But Carlia was not content to remain in Shaalizar. The world beyond the capital called to her, with its winding roads, far-flung villages, and endless mysteries. She yearned to see the River Valley, a vast and fertile region where stories were whispered of ancient ruins, haunted forests, and towns that still held the echoes of forgotten wars.

So, she set out with little more than her lute, a few coins, and her unshakable charm. For the past two years, Carlia had roamed from one town to the next, her performances winning her the admiration of countless patrons. Her fame grew with each stop, and the name Carlia Havannah became known from the city of Ringwood to the northern mountain lake federation of Bubastis.. At every tavern and inn she performed, she left a trail of enraptured fans. Many young men—and some women—offered her gifts, favors, and even marriage proposals, all entranced by the beauty and mystery of the golden-haired bard. But Carlia was not so easily swayed. While she was kind and gracious to her admirers, her heart remained her own, and no proposition had yet captured her interest.

Tonight, however, in the crowded tavern of Jugathon, something was different.

As Carlia finished the final verse of her song, the room erupted into applause. A few patrons called out for another, and Carlia, with a warm smile, nodded graciously. She began to strum again, a livelier tune this time, one meant to lift the spirits of the storm-weary crowd. But even as she played, her sharp gaze roamed the room, taking in the faces before her.

There were the usual starstruck patrons—men gazing at her with wide eyes, women smiling with admiration, and groups of sailors leaning in to hear her every word. But one figure caught her attention, a man seated in the far corner, shrouded in shadows.

He was different from the rest. His eyes were not filled with the awe and adoration she had grown accustomed to. Instead, they were sharp, calculating, as though he were studying her. His clothes, though worn from travel, were finely made, and the way he carried himself suggested he was no mere traveler. A dangerous aura clung to him like the scent of rain on the wind.

Carlia’s fingers moved deftly across the strings, but her mind began to race. Over the years, she had encountered her share of shady characters—rogues and scoundrels who sought to use her fame for their own gain. But something about this man unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite place.

After finishing the song, Carlia rose gracefully from her seat, bowing to the crowd before stepping away from the stage. The innkeeper, an elderly man named Jorin, gave her a nod of approval as he poured another round of drinks for the thirsty patrons. She moved toward the bar, where Jorin handed her a drink of her own, though she rarely drank heavily during performances.

“That was your best yet, lass,” Jorin said with a grin. “Never seen the place so full on a stormy night.”

Carlia smiled and took a small sip of the drink. “Thank you, Jorin. The storm must have driven them all in.”

“Aye, and they’re lucky for it,” the innkeeper said, his eyes twinkling. “Where else would they hear such a voice?”

Carlia chuckled lightly, her gaze flicking once more to the man in the shadows. He hadn’t moved, but his eyes were still on her. She leaned closer to Jorin. “Who is that man?” she asked quietly.

Jorin followed her gaze and frowned. “That one? Don’t know his name, but he came in earlier tonight, just before the storm hit. Didn’t say much, just asked for a drink and a corner seat. Paid well, though. Why? Something bother you about him?”

Carlia hesitated. “He just seems… out of place.”

Jorin shrugged. “Could be. But you know how it is, lass. Jugathon’s a port city. We get all kinds passing through here. Traders, adventurers, even a few that don’t like to be noticed.”

Carlia nodded, but a sense of unease lingered. She knew better than most how dangerous the world could be, and she had learned to trust her instincts. Deciding to be cautious, she returned to the stage, but this time her focus was split between the music and the man in the corner.

As the night wore on, the storm outside grew fiercer. Thunder rumbled like the growl of a distant beast, and lightning flashed intermittently, casting strange shadows across the tavern’s walls. The crowd, however, paid little mind, still caught in the spell of Carlia’s music.

But then the tavern doors burst open with a crash.

A gust of wind and rain swept into the room, and in the doorway stood a group of figures clad in dark cloaks, their faces hidden beneath hoods. The tavern fell silent as the newcomers entered, their presence chilling the once-warm air.

Carlia’s heart raced. She had faced many challenges in her travels, but something told her this night was about to become one of the most dangerous yet.

And in the midst of it all, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the man in the corner, the one who had watched her so closely, was connected to whatever storm had just blown in.

Storm’s Edge

The room was tense, the weight of the storm outside mirrored by the sudden chill that descended over the tavern. All eyes were on the dark-cloaked figures who had just entered through the door, their heavy boots clapping against the tavern’s wooden floor as they moved into the room. The flickering firelight cast long shadows across their faces, obscured by hoods. They were no ordinary travelers.

Carlia’s fingers hovered over the strings of her lute, her song hanging unfinished in the air. Every instinct in her body screamed caution. She had performed in dozens of taverns across the River Valley, but never had she encountered such an unsettling presence. These men—whoever they were—radiated danger.

As they moved deeper into the room, their leader stepped forward. He was tall and imposing, his cloak dripping rainwater onto the floor. Beneath his hood, Carlia caught a glimpse of his face—pale, angular, with eyes as cold as winter’s heart.

The crowd, once lively and filled with warmth, had fallen into an uneasy silence. The tavern’s patrons shifted in their seats, some instinctively reaching for weapons they had set aside. The tension was palpable.

The leader of the group turned his gaze toward Carlia, and her heart skipped a beat. There was something about the way he looked at her, something far more dangerous than simple curiosity. His eyes seemed to pierce through her, as if he knew exactly who she was.

“You,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “You are the bard from Shaalizar.”

It wasn’t a question.

Carlia’s throat tightened. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room upon her, waiting to see how she would respond. But before she could speak, the man’s lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“You’ve been traveling the River Valley for some time now,” he continued, his voice like poison dripping from a blade. “Singing songs of adventure, tales of bravery and love. But tell me, bard, do you sing of secrets as well?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Carlia’s pulse quickened. She knew what this was. Over the past few months, she had heard whispers, rumors that a powerful figure in Shaalizar had taken an interest in her. She had dismissed them as idle talk—after all, she was just a performer, a bard wandering the roads. But now, it seemed, those whispers had come to life.

Carlia swallowed hard. “I sing for the people,” she replied, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her chest. “Nothing more.”

The man’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Perhaps,” he said. “But there are those who believe you’ve seen more than you let on. You’ve crossed paths with people of interest—people with enemies. And enemies like me, Carlia Havannah, do not take kindly to being overlooked.”

The leader’s hand dropped to the hilt of a blade beneath his cloak. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable. Carlia’s breath caught in her throat. She had been in dangerous situations before, but this was different. This man, whoever he was, wanted something more than a simple song.

Before she could react, one of the cloaked figures made a move toward her. The crowd gasped, and Carlia’s muscles tensed, ready to run or fight. But in that moment, a voice broke the silence.

“That’s enough.”

The words came from the back of the tavern, calm but commanding. All eyes turned toward the stranger seated in the corner, the man who had been watching her since the beginning of the night. He rose to his feet slowly, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. He stepped forward, his boots steady, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that gleamed faintly beneath his dark cloak.

The cloaked leader narrowed his eyes. “And who might you be?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.

The stranger didn’t answer right away. He walked with a slow, measured pace, his face still partially obscured by the shadows, but his presence radiated strength and confidence. There was an air of calm about him, but also a quiet danger, as though he was a man used to violence, though he wore it lightly.

“I’m someone who doesn’t like seeing innocent people threatened,” the stranger said finally, his tone firm but calm. He glanced briefly at Carlia, their eyes meeting for the first time.

Carlia felt a strange flutter in her chest, a mixture of relief and something else—something unfamiliar. She had been rescued before, even admired by many, but there was something different about this man. He wasn’t drawn to her fame or beauty, but simply stepped in because he had a sense of honor.

The leader of the cloaked men sneered. “This is no concern of yours, stranger. Walk away while you still can.”

The stranger’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, but he remained composed. “You’ll leave now,” he said quietly, but with an unmistakable edge in his voice. “Before things get ugly.”

For a tense moment, the air in the tavern was thick with the threat of violence. The leader of the cloaked men seemed to consider his options, his cold eyes flicking between the stranger and Carlia. But something in the stranger’s demeanor gave him pause. There was a confidence there, a silent promise that this was not a fight he would win easily.

With a frustrated growl, the leader turned to his men. “We’re leaving,” he spat. “But this isn’t over, bard. We’ll be watching.”

The group of cloaked figures retreated back into the storm, their presence vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The tension in the room lifted, though a sense of unease still lingered. The patrons of the tavern began to murmur among themselves, their eyes filled with curiosity and relief.

Carlia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The stranger, now standing closer, glanced at her, his eyes calm but full of unspoken questions.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice softening.

Carlia nodded, though her heart was still racing. “I think so,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in.”

The stranger offered her a small, reassuring smile. “Glad I could help.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the storm outside still raging, but the warmth of the fire and the murmuring crowd bringing a sense of normalcy back to the tavern. Carlia looked up at the stranger, her gaze lingering on him a little longer than it should have. There was something about him, something beyond the danger he had just averted. She couldn’t place it, but she felt drawn to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice softer now.

The man hesitated for just a moment, then replied, “My name’s Alden.”

Carlia smiled, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to melt away. “Alden… You’ve done more than just help tonight.”

And for the first time in a long while, as she stood beside the handsome stranger who had just saved her, Carlia felt something stir within her—a feeling that perhaps her journey through the River Valley had just taken a new, unexpected turn.

The Ballad of Carlia Havannah