That morning, Viena and Randia had found work at the bakers’ guild. The ovens breathed their heat into the streets of Londerstand, and flour clung to their sleeves like fine winter dust. Even so, something in the town stirred livelier than usual.
“It appears the town grows busier by the day,” Randia remarked, dusting his gloves with care. His voice carried that familiar, cool precision. “I wonder what compels such haste.”
“That’d be the festival preparations, no doubt,” offered the tavern master, polishing a worn pewter tankard behind the counter. His manner was amiable, the edges of his smile softened by years of stories and ale.
“Festival?” Randia’s brow lifted faintly. “My daughter and I are but travelers, seldom lingering long enough to drink deeply of local affairs—but unless I am mistaken, is it not somewhat premature for Rosmayne to celebrate Prima Risera?”
The tavern master blinked, surprise melting quickly into a grin. “Well now! I’m amazed you know of Prima Risera. Honored, truly. But no, this isn’t that sort of festivity. It’s a commemoration of sorts—a welcome for the foreign delegations arriving soon.”
Randia’s eyes narrowed, sharp with interest. “Delegations?”
“Aye. You haven’t heard?” The man leaned in conspiratorially. “The Grand Summit’s being convened at Fal’ Athrandor.”
For a heartbeat, Randia’s expression stilled, like glass settling in the frame.
“A Grand Summit… in Unisium Faelanas?” His words dropped quieter. “I was under the impression the elves preferred seclusion over spectacle.”
Across from them, Viena shifted, her deep blue eyes darting between faces as the conversation swelled beyond her reach. Names and places spun past like distant stars. With an impatient huff, she tugged sharply at Randia’s cloak.
“Papa,” she chirped, her voice lilting with curiosity, “what’s a Grand Summit?”
Randia cast her a sidelong glance, the faintest trace of fondness flickering beneath his composed veneer.
“It is an extraordinary congress,” he said, his words measured and crisp. “A gathering where rulers from all corners of the world sit beneath one roof and discussing matters that shape nations.”
“It's the third Grand Summit, little lady,” the tavern master chimed in with a smile. “The first two? Happened long before you was born.”
“So it’s like a town hall meeting?” Viena asked brightly, tilting her head.
Randia blinked, faintly bemused. That she knew the term was no small thing. Even Londerstand, rural as it was, kept old customs alive.
“You are familiar with such councils?” he asked.
“Mhm! Mama used to go to them when she was looking for work,” Viena replied proudly.
“Well then,” the tavern master chuckled, resting a broad hand on the counter, “you’ve the right idea. A town hall—but grander than you can imagine. Hundreds of envoys and important people, all convening in one shining city. They say the streets brim with feasts and music. Spices waft from every corner, and the air itself hums sweet for days on end.”
Viena’s eyes sparkled, her smile quick and unrestrained. The tavern master’s voice painted wonders brighter than banners, and she drank it in eagerly.
Randia, meanwhile, exhaled soundlessly, his gaze distant. The tavern master’s tales glittered fair—but they did not speak of truth.
He remembered too well the true marrow of such summits: the veiled threats masked as courtesies, the negotiations sharpened like tempered steel, the long nights steeped in suspicion where even deepest fellowships cracked under unseen pressure.
“Wow!” Viena gasped, her thoughts far from politics. She seized Randia’s sleeve, her fingers clutching eagerly. “Can we go too, Papa? Please?”
“No.” His answer was immediate and flat.
“Eh? Why not? It sounds amazing—like a super mega festival!”
Randia’s lips tugged into the faintest of sneers. “Because, I have no wish to be reduced to a husk within a month’s time after dragging a quarrelsome brat like you across half the world.”
“I’m not quarrelsome! And I can walk perfectly fine!” Viena protested, puffing her cheeks.
Randia gave a long-suffering sigh, his gaze level. “Do you even comprehend the eating habit of the elves?”
“Their diet? Isn’t it like ours?”
He folded his arms, his tone sharpening with didactic clarity. “Hardly. They partake solely of what the trees provide—nuts, fungi, fruits.”
“Well… that doesn’t sound too ba—”
“And insects,” he continued smoothly. “Termites. Worms. Crickets. Beetles. And, on occasion, spiders.”
Viena froze, color draining from her cheeks as her imagination conjured crawling forms far too vividly. The tiny legs, the slick shells, the bristled hairs on segmented limbs. Her hands shot to her mouth, eyes wide with dread.
The tavern master roared with laughter and poured her a fresh glass of water, sliding it across to her with a grin. Viena seized it gratefully, drinking in quick gulps.
“That’s more like it,” the man chuckled warmly. “Other people’s ways are not to be taken lightly, lass.”
Viena’s eyes still gleamed with restless curiosity. She leaned in, lowering her voice into what she imagined was a clever whisper.
“If you showed them your medallion, Papa… would they give us a better meal?”
Randia’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp as glass. Before he could answer, the tavern master let out a warm laugh, shaking his head as he wiped down a glass with a well-worn cloth.
“Hah! As if there’s such a thing, little miss.”
“But there is!” Viena chirped, undeterred. “The other day, when Papa showed the guard the Rose—”
She got no further.
In an instant, Randia’s hand clamped gently but firmly over her mouth, his gloved fingers silencing her words. His eyes—usually cool and distant—darkened with something colder, sterner. A silent command simmered there, brooking no argument.
Yet the damage had already unspooled.
The tavern master’s movements slowed, the squeak of glass against cloth dying mid-stroke. His easy smile thinned as his gaze fixed on Randia with renewed sharpness.
“A Rosela Titulia… you say?”
Randia’s jaw tightened. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped, as though each word had been carefully measured against consequence.
“Children have a tendency to prattle nonsense, Master. There’s no world in which mere wanderers such as ourselves would lay hands on such thing.”
“… Unless you were not mere wanderers.”
A taut stillness coiled between them. The two men held each other’s gaze, something unspoken—and old—passing like a shadow between them.
Randia exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. His hand slid from Viena’s mouth as he straightened, resting his palm flat on the table.
“It’s nothing more than a child’s babbling,” he repeated, steady but not unkind. His voice smoothed into something that almost resembled candor. “I silenced her because I have no desire to attract unnecessary attention. I am all too aware of the worth such a relic commands. I have known the price firsthand. Now, I only wish to wander this wide world in peace.”
For a long beat, the tavern master studied him in silence. Then slowly, he leaned back, a small, rueful smile touching the corners of his lips.
“You don’t need to be so defensive, friend,” he said at last, voice low and almost fond. “I won’t trouble you. Things might’ve been different, aye, if I were still the man I once was. But I’ve hung up those dirty boots.” His gaze flicked subtly to a nearby table, where a pair of unfamiliar figures murmured over their mugs. “Still… I can’t say the same for others.”
The tavern master broke the tension with practiced ease, pouring another measure of cider into Randia’s cup. The amber liquid shimmered as it caught the tavern light.
Randia inclined his head slightly, a silent gesture of gratitude. His shoulders eased fractionally as he turned back to Viena. With an almost imperceptible gentleness, he guided her head back toward her plate, his hand resting briefly atop her crown.
“You will never—ever—interfere when grown folk are speaking again,” he said softly, but the iron in his tone was unmistakable.
Viena’s lips pressed into a thin line, her earlier spark dimming under the weight of Randia’s rebuke. She nodded, chastened, her fingers curling quietly at the edge of her plate.
Across the table, the tavern master’s gaze softened. It pained him, in truth, to see the lively little girl so cowed. There was a light in her—the rare sort of keenness that most children lacked, and few adults cherished. Her attentiveness, her bold questions, her ceaseless curiosity… He had noticed it from the first and admired it quietly since.
“Ah, come now,” he rumbled, waving a hand in mild protest. “Don’t be too hard on her. Kids are meant to be noisy and nosy. Sure, this one wasn’t ideal—but who among us hasn’t spoken out of turn before? Even grown men stumble, don’t we?”
With an easy smile, he reached behind the counter and speared a fat, glistening link of roasted sausage, laying it on a clean plate before sliding it toward Viena. The savory aroma curled into the air, rich and inviting.
“Here, little miss,” he said warmly. “A small reward for your bright mind—and a reminder that sometimes it’s best to tuck away secrets like precious gems.”
Viena blinked, surprised, but managed a small, grateful smile as she accepted the gift.
Randia, watching the exchange, said nothing. But his eyes lingered on the tavern master for a long, thoughtful moment—his usual reserve masking whatever silent calculus turned behind them.
“Truly, that wasn’t necessary, Master… but thank you for your generosity.”
Randia inclined his head, his voice calm but sincere.
The tavern master chuckled, waving a dismissive hand before ducking beneath the counter. There was a faint rustle of paper and clatter of wood as he rummaged through a hidden compartment. After a moment, he straightened, a folded newspaper pinched between his fingers. The edges were creased and soft, and faint, sepia stains—tea, by the look of it—mottled several pages.
“Since you’re so curious about the Grand Summit,” the tavern master said with a knowing smile, laying the paper on the table, “I reckon this’ll be of interest. This came out… what, three weeks ago? My memory’s not what it used to be. It’s hell growing old, I tell ya’. Let me check the date.”
He flipped through the worn sheets with clumsy fingers. After a few futile moments, Randia reached over and, with practiced precision, tapped a small printed line at the corner of the front page.
“Ah—yes, there it is,” the tavern master murmured, squinting at the print.
“Trinda, 15th of Sun’s Crown, 10th year of the Fourth Age. Says here the thirteen great realms convened for a conference of supreme importance. The gathering was called, in large part… ah, but not solely… in response to rumors of the return of Randia.”
“In that gathering, it says, the delegates agreed to suspend all hostilities between their nations. As a gesture of goodwill and prudence, they’ve also proposed several programs to restore bonds and maintain peace—ushering in, as they put it, the dawn of a new age.”
The old man chuckled, tapping the masthead with a thick forefinger.
“Oh, and look here—they’ve even listed the names of the dignitaries who attended. That’s why I always buy Penna Noire, mind you. None of that cheap-ass Grondin rubbish. You get what you pay for.”
Randia’s expression remained inscrutable as he took the paper into his hands. With methodical care, he unfolded it fully and began reading. His eyes swept steadily over each line, consuming names, accords, and veiled threats written between polished diplomatic language. Viena, having finished her meal, sat quietly now, sneaking glances at him from under her lashes. There was a tautness to her foster father’s posture that unsettled her—the same stillness a stag holds before it bolts into the dark.
At length, Randia laid the paper down, folding it neatly along its original creases. His gloved hand rose, fingers pressing briefly to the bridge of his nose. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, threaded with a weariness that no amount of polished language could quite conceal.
“May their meeting bear fruit for us all… and may this peace hold fast.” His eyes half-lidded, distant. “We have already lost too much in the war.”
The tavern master gave a soft grunt of agreement, leaning against the counter with a tired smile.
“Right you are. Gods willing, the past stays buried. I’d sooner die slipping in the bath than live long enough to see another war spill over these lands.”
Their gazes met for a moment, a quiet understanding exchanged in the dim light of the tavern.
Soon after, they gathered their things. Randia rose, adjusting his cloak with practiced ease, while Viena hopped from her stool, hugging the remains of her sausage to her chest. The tavern master extended a weathered hand, which Randia clasped firmly.
“Safe roads to you, traveler,” the old man said warmly.
“And to you, Master. May your hearth stay full, and your walls untouched by trouble,” Randia replied with the faintest trace of formal elegance.
With that, they parted ways—each man carrying, in his own way, the weight of bygone wars and fragile hopes for peace.