Perhaps, Doren thought, this was a trial. Perhaps he had never yet been sworn as a Promised, and the last half a decade had been a Hallucination, and his rise to and fall from grace was a prelude to the choice which would win or lose him his silver. It was too perfectly structured to his weakness, with the sweet temptation of music and this being's too-perfect deal to rise from his slow decay to stability again. He would never have stayed in the tavern if not for the music. He never would have listened to the offer if he hadn't been so tired and confused in his exile, so ashamed and hopeful and weak. And now the trickster or elemental or dragon or whatever she might be had just offered a fortune upfront for a mysterious deal involving her own death and vengeance against an entirely unknown entity. Only a fool would take the deal. An even bigger fool would take the money and abandon the deal, but that was beyond him - this creature could likely destroy him as soon as he tried, and he would not fall deeper into shame by breaking a promise, even if he could no longer Promise. The offer though, the implicit trick, made this all so much more suspicious.

 

The pale birchwood of the perch's chair looked orange in the faded tavern hall. He gave it all his focus. This was not a Hallucination, as much as he wished it were. But it might still be a trick or a trap. And even if it were not, it was a very bad decision. He did not know who Valla was, and she would not or could not tell him who her enemy was. For all he knew it could be another Promised or an entire country. It could be a dragon or even a god. He could very well die or fail.

 

But then, what would he really lose then. He had already lost everything he valued. He was alive because it was necessary to continue, because it was inconceivable to stop. So what would it change if he were to fail? At least he would be fighting, at least he could keep a promise. He would honor it as he would a true Promise and remember what it was to have pride for a couple of years. He could make a choice so foolish he wouldn't need to wallow in self-pity. It would be a waste of time to indulge in self-recrimination when all caution had been abandoned wholesale.

 

He looked away from the perch. Valla was still there, chin in hand, no longer humming but snoring softly. He snorted at the sight, amused now where he knew he should have been terrified. The mood of the tavern was somber, almost ominous, the fire dead and all patrons gone. Orlo was standing behind the bar, steady but with wild eyes, clearly wrecked by fear. Aisel was gone. And although it was maybe an hour from dawn, Doren wanted to indulge in the bed he had so hoped for before. Standing heavily, he looked once more at Valla. It was doubtful that Orlo would act alone, and while Aisel had clearly changed her assessment of Valla, any organized action to eject Valla from the town would take more time to organize, more if they truly feared her as they should. As frightening as Valla would be to someone like Orlo, normal townsfolk had no reason to truly believe in daemons unless they had already experienced something otherworldly. Such things were known by all to be true, but so rarely impacted their lives on this plane that a living, breathing elemental or dragon or daemon would be inconceivable, and their reaction should be slow even if it might eventually be extreme. They had time, and clearly, he wasn't the only one who needed rest. An hour of sleep and Doren could find Valla, take the deal, and they could leave.