As they took steps toward the cathedral's entrance, they saw another group exiting, escorted by a priest.
"I'm sorry," the priest was saying to the group of disappointed visitors. "The Cathedral is closed for private devotionals this afternoon. We'll reopen for evening prayers at sundown."
"Private devotionals?" one of the visitors protested.
"Yes, we received the Bishop's decree this morning," the priest said, his tone allowing no argument. "The Creators' blessings to you all."
Emilia muttered something under her breath that Heron didn't quite catch.
"Closed?" Heron asked.
"Apparently." She turned away from the Cathedral, hands on her hips, looking annoyed. "They do this sometimes. Some noble pays extra for a private ceremony, and the rest of us get locked out." She sighed. "Sorry. I really didn't know."
Heron found himself oddly relieved. "It's fine. We can come back another time."
"Are you that interested?" Emilia asked, her eyebrow raised.
"Yes, I mean, looking at it up close, I really would like to see how it is from the inside."
"I guess it makes sense." Emilia chewed her lip, thinking. Then her expression shifted to mischief. "Actually... there's another place I could show you. It is not as grand as this, but I find it grand in spirit." She glanced at him, assessing.
"What kind of place?"
"A cellar. It has been repurposed, though. Villagers tend to visit it. It was founded by villagers who decided to try and make it in the city."
Heron's interest sparked. "An underground tavern?"
"Sort of. The owner is from a village near Reitag." She started walking, and Heron fell into step beside her. "There's excellent music being played there. Tonight should be one of the live nights."
"And you can just come unannounced?"
"Well, they are a bit picky about who can come. Usually, you need someone to vouch for you. Luckily for you, this nanny has you covered." Emilia said, grinning.
Heron let out an exhausted sigh. "Ok, nanny. We can go."
"We're here," Emilia said, stopping in front of what looked like a forgotten corner between two buildings. It was already night. A narrow alley, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, stretched into shadow. At its end, a weathered wooden door stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the gap.
No sign marked it. Nothing indicated what lay beyond except the faint sound of voices.
Emilia led Heron down the alley and started knocking at the door. Her knocks echoed a secret code.
The cellar opened before them. It was a low ceiling supported by stone arches, candlelight casting shadows across rough wooden tables. Perhaps thirty people filled the space, their clothes worn and straightforward. The air smelled of smoke, cheap ale, and cooking stew.
A few looked up as they entered, eyes assessing and wary, before returning to their conversations.
At the far end of the room, a small cleared space served as a stage, and musicians were tuning their instruments.
"Emilia," a voice called out. A broad-shouldered man behind the bar raised a hand in greeting, his accent thick and rural. "Haven't seen you in a week. Thought maybe Marcus finally worked you to death."
"Not yet, Gregor." Emilia led Heron to the bar. "This is Heron. He's from Haugstad."
Man recognized the village name. "Haugstad. That was..." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, boy. Bad business, that."
"Thank you," Heron said quietly.
"He's here for the adventurer selection," Emilia added. "Figured he could use some proper company before the guild tears him apart."
Gregor snorted. "Proper company? You brought him to a cellar full of bitter refugees." But there was warmth beneath the sarcasm. "What'll you have? Ale or water that might not kill you?"
"Two ales," Emilia said.
As they got their drinks poured, the murmur of people around them started to die down. One of the musicians tested his accordion with a quick squeeze. The sound cut through the low conversation, and heads began to turn. Another musician, lean and weathered, tapped his hand drum twice, and a third plucked the strings on his stringallo.
"They're starting," Emilia said, handing Heron his ale. She led him to an empty table near the back where they could see the stage. "The Miners. They play here most weeks."
Heron settled onto the bench. "The Miners?"
"They work the crystal mines outside the city." She took a sip. "Dangerous work, but it pays better than what most villagers can get."
The bearded man behind the plucker stood up, his miner's suspenders visible even in the dim light.
"Good evening, friends!" His voice was rough but warm, carrying that thick rural accent.
A few people cheered in response.
"We've got new faces tonight, old faces, and some exasperated faces. So let us light them all up!"
The hand drum struck first—a rapid, driving beat that made the whole cellar pulse. The accordion and stringallo joined in, with their bright sounds.
[Verse 1]
We plant the grain that fills your plates,
We tend the earth from dawn till dark,
While crystal towers shine so bright,
And leave us dwelling in the park.
The barrier hums its golden song,
We wonder if we still belong.
[Chorus]
Behind the crosses, under sky,
We're all the same when children cry.
The Creators made us from one dust,
So why divide the broke from just?
Behind the crosses, hearts still beat,
In village mud and city street.
[Verse 2]
You fear the magic in your hands,
We fear the hunger in our own,
The clergy speaks of harmony,
But seeds we plant are rarely sown.
The fire burns on both our sides,
When demons come, where do we hide?
The song was pure celebration. Fast, joyful, the kind of music played at harvest dances and weddings. Heron's foot started tapping before he even realized it.
Around the cellar, people stood. Some attempted the traditional dance steps in the cramped space between tables, laughing when they collided with chairs or each other. Others just swayed in place, clapping along with the beat.
"Come on!" someone shouted, pulling a reluctant friend to their feet.
The accordion player's fingers flew across the keys, the melody spiraling higher and faster. The drummer added flourishes, sharp cracks of rhythm that punctuated the song like exclamation points. And through it all, the strigallo wove its bright thread of sound.
Emilia was grinning, her foot tapping in time. "This is my favorite." She set down her ale. "Can you dance?"
"I—what?"
But she was already pulling him to his feet. "Come on. Just let yourself loose and it will be fine."
She pulled him into the chaos of moving bodies. He observed the steps others did. A spin, stamp, clap, turn. He was awkward, but so were others. A woman twice his age laughed as she nearly kicked over a chair. Two men attempted the partnered section and gave up halfway through, dissolving into laughter.
It didn't matter. No one was here to judge. They were here to remember what it felt like to be home.
The song built to its crescendo, the accordion hitting notes so high they seemed to scrape the stone ceiling. The drummer was standing now, beating out a thunderous finale. And then—
Silence.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the cellar erupted in applause, cheers, and the stamping of feet on wooden floors.
Heron found himself breathing hard, grinning despite himself. Emilia was laughing, her face flushed.
"See?" she said. "Not so bad."
"That was..." He didn't have words for it.
"Wait until you hear the next one," she said, pulling him back to their table. "They always start with the happy songs. Gets everyone warmed up."
The Miners were already transitioning, the stringallo player picking out a slower melody. Still upbeat, but gentler now. A few couples moved together for this one, swaying rather than spinning.
Heron took a long drink of his ale, his heart still racing. Around him, the cellar had transformed. These weren't villagers or citizens, they were just people, remembering how to be alive.
"Thank you," he said quietly to Emilia.
"For what?"
"For bringing me here." He gestured around the room. "For showing me this."
She just smiled.
The next song began, and Heron let himself sink into it. Let the music fill the hollow spaces that six cycles of grief had carved. Let himself, just for tonight, be part of something larger than his pain.
And when The Miners struck up another dance tune, and Emilia pulled him to his feet again, he didn't hesitate.