As twilight deepened, the golden hush of evening settled across the land. Long shadows stretched between twisted trees, and the scent of pine and ash filled the cooling air.
They crested a small rise, and the forest parted like a curtain. A small city lay out in the plains before them.
“The city of Valtross,” Nyra announced, waving her hand toward the valley below.
Jace slowed, taking in the view. Stone walls rose from the earth like a fortress grown from the ground itself. Lanterns flickered along narrow streets beyond the gate, casting warm glows between timber-framed houses. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, and the scent of roasted meat wafted up the slope. It was modest, even plain—but to Jace, it looked like a haven.
They made their way down quietly. Mostly due to the exhaustion. It was nice to just bask in their presence. He wasn't alone anymore.
The egg at his back pulled at him slightly. He smiled. Well, he had other people from this world to talk to. ‘Soon, we will get you more souls, Ghosty. Once I find a place to rest for the night, I'll feed you. Then soon, you can come out and play too.’
Two guards flanked the open gate, leaning on spears, deep in casual conversation. They barely glanced up as the group approached.
Jace rolled his shoulders, the weight of survival still lingering in his limbs. Every step still felt like it might lead to a fight. Every breath, like it should come with the scent of blood and dust. But here, just past the gate, the tension was beginning to bleed out of him.
The cobbled street beneath his boots felt unnaturally smooth—no bones, no blood, just worn stone and torchlight. The scent of roasted meat replaced the pine of the forest. Chimneys puffed lazy trails into the twilight sky, and warm light spilled from shuttered windows like golden invitations.
“Well,” Nyra said, stepping closer. Her smirk had returned, but there was something softer beneath it. “Looks like you made it after all.”
Jace scoffed, though the sound was tired more than smug. “You make it sound like I wasn’t going to.”
Sylas elbowed him with a grin. “We had bets.”
Nyra’s eyes gleamed, the sharp tips of her canines flashing in the lantern glow. “We’ve been through worse,” she said. But there was something else in her tone—like maybe she wasn’t so sure this one hadn’t come close.
They passed the guards, who barely gave them a second glance. Their eyes were fixed on the darkness beyond the wall, fingers resting on spear shafts like they expected the woods to come alive.
“They’re not watching us,” Nyra murmured, catching Jace’s glance. “Their job is to stop what’s out there from getting in.”
Jace nodded, a new weight settling over him as the gates creaked shut behind them. A finality to it. Like a chapter had closed—one he hadn’t meant to start.
The city of Valtross unfolded around them in winding, uneven streets and timber-framed buildings stacked close together. Stone gutters carried away melted snow. Signs creaked above shop fronts in the breeze—anvil-shaped ironworks, herbalist symbols, and faded crests painted in long-chipped lacquer. In the distance, bells chimed the hour—nine tones, slow and echoing, bouncing off the walls like the heartbeat of the town itself.
Nearby, a vendor stacked baked bread into boxes, its warm scent mixing enticingly with the sharp tang of iron from a blacksmith across the street. Children darted through the shadows, laughing as their mothers called them home for bed.
And then Nyra spoke—soft, almost reluctant. “Well… I guess that’s it.”
Jace blinked. “What is?”
“Our job.” Her voice was casual, but her eyes didn’t quite meet his. “We got you here in one piece. That was the deal.”
Jace opened his mouth—then hesitated. Right. This had all started with convenience. A shared threat. A moment of need. He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t expected anything either. He certainly hadn’t planned on… this.
Nyra extended her hand, palm up in a warrior’s gesture. Jace instinctively moved to clasp it like a handshake.
She stared at him like he’d just proposed to her.
Sylas cackled from behind. “Oh no. He really is from a backwater place.”
She slid in smoothly, grabbed his forearm, and guided his hand into the crook of her elbow. almost like a forearm grasp. “Like this. Firm. Respectful. Try not to look like you’re holding your grandma’s hand at a funeral.”
Jace grunted and tried again. Nyra’s expression softened as their arms locked properly, briefly, but solidly. The tension broke.
Sylas stepped back, folding her arms. “Well, Jace—if you’re not planning to vanish into the night like some dramatic lone wolf, we’ll be at the Silver Hearth. Drinks. Food. Beds that don’t smell like mildew and regret. You’re welcome to join us.”
Jace gave a slow nod. “I might just do that.”
But then he hesitated. “Uh… random question. Is there anywhere still open where I can sell some stuff?”
The group exchanged amused glances like he’d just asked where to find a dragon’s lost contact lens.
Sylas raised an eyebrow. “What kind of stuff?”
“Just some loot from a dungeon,” Jace said with a shrug, playing it casual.
Sylas threw her hands up. “Of course, you cleared a gods-damned dungeon before saving our lives. Because that’s normal.”
Torak chittered low in his throat. Even Patch emitted a gravelly rumble that might’ve been a chuckle—his version of comedy gold.
Jace snorted. “So that’s a no?”
Nyra shook her head, her smirk sharpening. “Not tonight. Tradesmen’ll eat you alive if they think you’re green. Best place is the Guild, but you’ll need to register first.”
Jace winced. “Yeah, about that… I don’t exactly have any coins.”
Nyra froze mid-step. “Wait. You what?”
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Didn’t really have time to… y’know, earn any. Or steal any. Or find it under a suspiciously glowing rock.”
She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest like she was in a stage play. “You poor, penniless wanderer! Lost in a strange land, armed only with your wits and a rusted sword—”
Jace groaned. “I instantly regret telling you.”
“Too late.” She wrapped her arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, tragic hero. Tonight’s on me.”
“What?” As Nyra linked her arm through his, warmth radiated from the simple gesture. A fleeting memory surged—the last time someone had casually touched him this way, without fear or hesitation. It felt like another lifetime, another world. He quickly buried the thought, afraid of the wounds it might reopen.
“You need a hot meal and a bed. I’ve got the coin. Don’t make it weird.”
Ahead, Sylas called back, “Nyra’s adopting another one, huh?”
Torak, without a beat: “Pattern detected.”
Patch: “Confirmed.”
“I do not adopt people!” Nyra snapped, ears flattening in indignation.
Sylas pointed over her shoulder. “You’re literally dragging him home.”
Nyra flicked her tail in a sharp arc and looked away. “Shut up and walk.”
Jace let her pull him along, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t resist. Lantern light flickered across their faces. Laughter echoed off the stone. Somewhere, a dog barked. The smell of sweetbreads drifted from a nearby bakery that hadn’t yet closed its doors.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight?
He felt it.
Not just relief. Not just survival. Belonging.
They crossed into town proper, the uneven cobbled streets lit with patches of warm, flickering lanterns. The Silver Hearth Tavern sat tucked between a blacksmith's forge and a sleepy general store, its sign swaying gently in the night breeze. A carved symbol of a firelit mug glowed faintly from the paint, and from within, the sounds of clinking glasses, soft lute music, and quiet conversation bled into the street.
Sylas was already pushing the door open before Jace could take it all in. “Come on, fresh meat. First round’s on Nyra.”
“It is not,” Nyra huffed as she led him in.
“Yes it is,” Sylas said sweetly. “Because you’re adopting him, remember?”
Nyra let out a slow growl, but didn’t argue further.
The interior was cozy in that nostalgic, fire-warmed way that made you forget the world outside had monsters, corrupted dungeons, or gods playing puppet master. A stone hearth crackled at the far wall, casting golden light across the mismatched tables and scuffed wooden floors. The air smelled of roasted meat, spiced cider, and a faint hint of pipe smoke—like the tavern itself had been steeped in a hundred years of stories.
The barkeep was already behind the counter, wiping down mugs with a cloth that had lost the war against time. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered with a beard so wild it looked like it could declare independence. His apron was stained, his knuckles scarred, and he moved with the ease of someone who’d tossed a drunk out a window more than once—and would probably do it again before the night was over.
“Hey, Brenn!” Sylas called, waving as she led the group inside like she owned the place.
Brenn looked up, squinting beneath bushy brows. When he spotted Sylas, his face cracked into a crooked grin. “Well, shit. The walking chaos returns.” His voice was gravel dragged through honey. “Take whatever’s empty. I’ll bring the usual—plus something for the new guy?”
They claimed a table near the hearth, where the fire’s warmth immediately began working its magic on Jace’s aching muscles. The exhaustion he’d been keeping at bay all day started to loosen its grip.
Patch remained standing behind the table like a stone sentinel, arms folded. Torak sat with his back to the wall, scanning the tavern with habitual precision. Nyra slouched comfortably beside Jace, stretching her legs with a satisfied sigh, while Sylas dropped into her seat like she’d just claimed a throne.
Brenn arrived moments later, a tray balanced on one broad hand. “Alright. What are we feelin’? Painkiller, mood-chiller, or ‘gods-don’t-let-me-remember-this’?”
Torak ordered water. Nyra smirked and requested something strong and red, “Preferably the kind that burns and makes me regret my choices.” Sylas grinned widely and pointed dramatically. “One of everything. Impress me.”
Brenn grunted, already jotting it down. “And you, mystery man?” he asked, nodding at Jace.
Jace glanced around the table, then at the barkeep's raised brow. “Surprise me.”
Brenn snorted. “Rookie move. I like it.” And with that, he turned and stomped back to the bar.
The fire popped in the hearth. Laughter bubbled at a nearby table. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pan sizzled with something that made Jace’s stomach growl.
And for the first time since he woke in a corpse-filled dungeon, he let himself relax.
Nyra arched her brow. “You drink?”
“I will tonight.” He laughed. It would be nice to have a moment where he could just forget everything. So he did.
The drinks came fast. Clinks. Foam. The scent of hops and spice drifted through the air, curling around the fire’s warmth.
They sipped in silence. The hearth crackled nearby, casting lazy shadows across the table. The tavern hummed with quiet conversation and clattering dishes, but at their table, everything felt still, comfortably so.
Jace leaned back in his chair, letting the moment settle. If he was seriously considering sticking with them, he needed to know who they were. Not just as fighters, but as people.
He cleared his throat. “So… how’d you all end up together?”
Nyra was the first to speak. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers wrapped around her mug. “I was a caravan guard out of Veldra’s Hollow. Beastkin like me don’t usually get picked for anything beyond patrol duty or bounty cleanup. I took whatever work I could. One job went bad—bandits, a burned wagon, two dead merchants. The Guild wrote it off as a loss, but I didn’t.” She glanced sideways toward Torak. “That’s when I met him.”
Sylas grinned and lifted her mug. “My turn? Alright. Born in Glimmerbrook. Twilight-Folk don’t get a lot of noble invites. I tried the apprentice route—worked for a lordling until I accidentally borrowed his heirloom sword. Without asking. Turns out nobles hate that.” She smirked. “Ended up taking any contract I could to outrun the bounty. Then Patch found me bleeding under a bridge and said, and I quote, ‘You are leaking. That is inefficient.’”
She chuckled. “Been stuck ever since.”
Torak chittered his mandibles. “Mine’s simple. Arena fighter from Grashok’s Hold. Won too many matches. Got labeled ‘volatile.’” He made air quotes with two of his four hands. “Guild booted me. Nyra found me in a drinking pit, offered a better way to hit things. I liked the sound of that.”
Patch didn’t speak at first. Then, with his low, mechanical rumble, he said: “I was created to heal. My creator died. So now I heal others. I do not know why I joined... but Nyra and Torak asked. And they let me stay.”
Then came the pause.
All eyes turned to Jace.
He shrugged and kept his tone casual. “Not much to tell. I grew up in a little hamlet—didn’t even have a name worth remembering. My mother died of sickness when I was a kid. My father passed years later. Farming, cooking, waiting to die in the same place… I couldn’t do it.” He took a sip. “So I packed up, picked a direction, and started walking. Took caravan jobs, wandered. Eventually, I found an undead dungeon nearby and managed to clear it. Then I kept going until I heard the fighting… and found you four.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You cleared a dungeon?” Sylas arched a brow. “Alone?”
Jace nodded. “Yeah. Why?”
Torak leaned in, his voice quieter. “The only undead dungeon near here is The Hollow. It’s been sealed for months. Off-limits. Corruption got too deep. The guild closed it after a dozen adventurers didn’t come back.”
Jace scratched the back of his head. “Huh. That explains… a lot, actually.”
Nyra’s expression shifted from curiosity to awe. She dropped her head into her hands, elbows still planted on the table. “What was in there?”
He told them. The skeletal hordes. The wyvern. The presence that whispered from the dark corners of his mind. When he finished, silence took the table again—but the energy had changed.
Nyra looked at him like she was seeing something out of a story.
Sylas blinked, then smirked. “Okay. You’re a monster. But like… a good one.”
Torak nodded slowly. “There’ve been other corrupted dungeons. Not many. But the Guild’s worried. They’re spreading.”
Jace raised his mug. “Well. Glad I made it out alive, then.”
Sylas leaned forward with a grin. “With power like that, you’re joining us. No takesies backsies.”
She reached for her dagger. “Or I swear I’ll stab you right now.”
Before she could finish, Nyra, without looking, hurled her empty mug across the table. Drunkenly accurate.
Thunk.
It smacked Sylas right in the face.
The whole table—and a few nearby patrons who’d been eavesdropping—burst into laughter. Even Patch gave off a faint, metallic hum that might’ve been amusement.
Jace chuckled, shaking his head.
Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.
—
Jace groaned as he cracked one eye open.
His head was pounding—a dull, persistent ache like a war drum in his skull. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his lips were dry, and every blink felt like dragging sandbags over his eyeballs. He groaned again, louder this time, and immediately regretted it as the echo bounced around the room like an angry toddler with a frying pan.
The last thing he remembered clearly was stepping into the Silver Hearth Tavern.
Then… what?
Everything after that was a kaleidoscope of voices, laughter, and warm, flickering light. A table. Drinks. More drinks. Sylas dared Torak to sing. Nyra trying to argue philosophy with Patch. Something about Jace making a toast and nearly falling into the hearth. Wait…
Was there singing?
...Was it him?
Jace groaned again, this time into his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t sing.”
He slowly pushed himself upright, expecting the floor beneath him, but was surprised to find a lumpy straw-stuffed mattress instead. He blinked blearily around the tiny, uneven room. The walls were rough timber, the air was thick with the scent of stale ale and old wood, and a single rickety chair sat beside the bed, angled just awkwardly enough to imply someone had once tripped over it violently.
'Yeah. A cheap tavern room.'
Still groggy, Jace swung his legs over the side and stood—only to immediately trip over a massive pile of what he assumed were discarded firewood or gear bundles.
He yelped as he stumbled forward, straight into a large, unyielding mound in the corner of the room.
A very solid mound.
A rune-covered, stone-plated mound.
High-pitched chittering erupted beneath him as his hip cracked off an armored shell, and suddenly he was tumbling, limbs flailing like a drunken marionette, right into the chest of Patch, the unmoving, unblinking rune-forged golem, whose glowing runes were now dim and pulsing like a heartbeat.
For one horrifying second, Jace thought he’d broken him.
“Patch?!” he croaked, fumbling backward, tangled in his legs. “Are you—did I—?”
The runes slowly brightened.
Patch’s eyes lit, and in his usual gravel-deep voice, he rumbled, “Good morning, Jace.”
Jace wheezed, collapsing back onto the mattress like a dying man. “You’ve got to stop sleeping in corners. Or crouching like a gargoyle. Or whatever it is you do.”
Before Patch could respond, a blur of motion erupted on the floor.
Torak launched upright from his makeshift bedroll near the wall, all four arms unsheathing blades in a flash of steel and mandible clicks. “Combat status: uncertain! Visual confirmation required!”
“Torak—!” Jace started, but it was too late.
The door slammed open with a bang that should've woken the dead.
Nyra stood framed in the doorway, barefoot but armed, a rumpled linen tunic hanging loosely over her frame and a cracked shield in one hand like she’d never gone to sleep without it. Her hair was sleep-mussed, her ears twitching, and her golden eyes swept the room with deadly focus.
Behind her, Sylas emerged in a nightdress that was way too elegant for sleep, dual daggers flashing in her hands and a murderous grin on her face. “What did I miss?”
Jace blinked. He wanted to explain. Really. But then came the sound.
Doors slamming.
Grumbles. Groans. The chorus of an entire inn full of exhausted adventurers.
“Lightweights!”
“Seriously?!”
“By the nine bleeding gods, it’s barely past dawn!”
“If someone’s not dead, I’m throwing my chamber pot!”
Jace just stood there, swaying slightly in the wake of chaos. Bedhead. Half-dressed. Stumbling into people and nearly triggering a three-party war.
“…I, uh. I tripped.”
There was a moment of stillness, like the entire inn collectively blinked.
And then?
Uproarious laughter.
Nyra broke first, laughing so hard she had to lean against the doorframe, her sword clattering to the floor. Sylas let out an actual wheeze, one hand clutching her side as she staggered back into the hallway, muttering, “Oh gods, we’re adopting a complete disaster.”
Torak just shook his head, calmly sheathing all four blades. “Threat level minimal. Alarm withdrawn.”
Even Patch rumbled faintly—a slow, resonant tone that might’ve been laughter or indigestion.
From down the hall, more voices joined in:
“I give it two days before he blows something up.”
“Better than the last guy Sylas brought in.”
“Tell him not to trip over the latrine next time!”
Jace flopped back onto the bed, arms over his face.
"Yeah, yeah. Get it out of your system."
Nyra, wiping tears from her eyes, leaned in with a wicked grin. “Oh, don’t worry. We will.”
NEXT TIME, ON HARMONY OF THE FALLEN:
“Okay, that’s enough dramatic shouting.”
“Taking over before you sprain your larynx. Look, folks—if you’ve made it this far, thank you. For real. We’re climbing the Royal Road charts faster than Jace when he tripped over Patch this morning, and that’s saying something.”
“And while Jace might be broke, we don’t all have the luxury of selling dungeon loot to get by. So if you’re enjoying the story and want to help Gr3yW0lf keep writing, there’s a Paypal link on the page! Every bit helps more than you know.”
“Almost. Now let’s finish this right. Deep breath, everyone.”
NEXT TIME, ON HARMONY OF THE FALLEN…
Jace faces his biggest threat yet, REGISTRATION!
The party gains a lead on the corruption—but will trust survive what's coming?
And Me?
I'm still not adopting him. Definitely not. (Maybe.)
What do think happened to drunk Jace?
