Today marks our third day since leaving Vaultreach.
This evening we arrived at a small roadside inn called Redust Inn.
It is not particularly impressive.
The walls creak.
The chairs complain.
The soup appears to contain equal parts vegetables and determination.
However—
it possesses actual beds.
This immediately improved my opinion of the establishment.
For reasons I still do not fully understand, Old Shard became visibly distressed when he discovered I sometimes sleep using my Infinity Bag as a pillow.
He spent nearly ten minutes explaining why this behavior was horrifying.
I spent the same ten minutes explaining that the bag is surprisingly comfortable.
Neither side achieved victory.
More importantly—
yesterday my curiosity defeated my common sense once again.
This is becoming a recurring problem.
For the past three days, I noticed something strange about Old Shard.
After every meal, he pours a small cup of liquor.
Then empties it onto the ground.
Every time.
Breakfast.
Lunch.
Dinner.
No exceptions.
At first I ignored it.
Then I became curious.
Then curiosity won.
As it usually does.
This morning I finally asked.
"Old Shard, why do you do that?"
The question produced an unexpected reaction.
For a moment he closed his eyes.
Took a slow breath.
Then asked a question of his own.
"Are you a Chronicler, Mama?"
I froze.
Only briefly.
But long enough.
Eventually I shook my head.
"No."
"I am a storyteller."
Old Shard laughed softly.
Not mockingly.
Not cruelly.
Just gently.
The way older people laugh when they notice something before you do.
"You can refuse to admit some things, Lady DeLuna."
"I don't know why."
"But you can."
Then he smiled.
"I can see the Elder Dragonkin marker."
"And even an old fool like me can feel the aura of that mask through your bag."
My hand instinctively touched the Infinity Bag beside me.
The White Fox Mask.
The dragon scale.
The conversation with Sondre.
For a moment all of it returned.
Not because I had forgotten.
More because I preferred not to think about it.
That distinction feels important somehow.
Then something changed.
Old Shard became serious.
Truly serious.
For the first time since I met him.
The cheerful appraiser vanished.
The eccentric collector vanished.
Even the endless complaints vanished.
Only an old man remained.
And suddenly he looked every one of his seventy-four years.
"Lady DeLuna."
I disliked hearing that immediately.
I said nothing.
Old Shard continued.
"I want to ask for your help."
A pause.
"I want you to write down our story."
The words surprised me.
"Our?"
He nodded.
Then looked toward the distant road outside.
Toward nowhere in particular.
Or perhaps somewhere very specific.
"Sondre."
"Roderick."
"Kael."
"Sera."
His smile returned slightly.
Smaller this time.
Softer.
"And Grace."
"And Kasper."
The last two names meant nothing to me.
Yet something in his voice made them feel important.
Like people whose absence had been present for a very long time.
Old Shard chuckled quietly.
"Sondre would say I'm being sentimental."
"Roderick would say I need a hobby."
"Sera would probably call me ridiculous."
"Kael would agree."
A pause.
"Grace and Kasper would laugh too."
His eyes lowered toward the untouched liquor beside him.
Then he picked up the cup.
And poured it slowly onto the earth.
Only then did I understand.
Not entirely.
But enough.
"For Grace and Kasper?"
Old Shard nodded.
Once.
No words.
Only that.
The silence afterward felt older than the road.
Eventually he spoke again.
"When I first met you, I thought it was fate."
I blinked.
Old Shard laughed.
Apparently my expression was embarrassing.
"Yes, yes."
"I know."
"Sounds ridiculous."
"It still feels true."
Then he looked directly at me.
"I'll pay."
"Artifacts."
"Gold."
"Anything."
"Name your price."
I stared at him.
For several seconds.
Then answered honestly.
"Old Shard."
A pause.
"I am not charging you for that."
The old dwarf became very quiet.
Then smiled.
Not the smile of a merchant.
Not the smile of an appraiser.
Not even the smile of a collector.
Just the smile of someone relieved.
As though a burden had become lighter.
I think that was the moment I agreed.
Not because of payment.
Not because of obligation.
But because suddenly I understood.
Old Shard was afraid.
Not of death.
Not of monsters.
Not of poverty.
He was afraid of being forgotten.
Or perhaps—
afraid that the people he loved might be forgotten.
This evening, while eating downstairs, I overheard several merchants discussing the upcoming auction in Dunskar.
Apparently this year's event will be extraordinary.
According to them, the Caravan Master himself will attend.
That alone generated considerable excitement.
Then one merchant lowered his voice dramatically.
And revealed the real rumor.
The Caravan Master would supposedly arrive accompanied by a princess from a powerful kingdom across the sea.
Everyone at the table seemed impressed.
The discussion continued for quite some time.
Trade agreements.
Politics.
Noble bloodlines.
Merchant speculation.
I eventually stopped listening.
People become strangely enthusiastic whenever royalty enters a conversation.
Now I am writing from my room.
Tomorrow the road continues.
Soon we should reach Second Chance Inn.
Soon I will begin recording Old Shard's stories.
The stories of Sondre.
Roderick.
Kael.
Sera.
And two names I had never heard before today.
Grace.
Kasper.
Strange.
Three days ago I thought we were simply traveling toward Dunskar.
Now it feels as though I have been handed the beginning of another story.
One that started long before I was born.
And for reasons I still do not completely understand—
I think Old Shard trusts me to carry it.
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