Moonlight spread across the forest surrounding Einsway, silvering the treetops, fields, and quiet river. Ordinarily, the night would have belonged to owls, insects, and small animals creeping carefully through the undergrowth.
Tonight, the Dancing Dragon Inn had other plans.
Music, laughter, and drunken singing poured over the village walls and carried far across the fields. Birds shifted irritably upon their branches. Rabbits gathered near the forest's edge with their ears raised toward the noise, while curious mice and rats crept through the grass for a closer look.
One particularly enthusiastic woodpecker even landed on the palisade and began hammering along with the rhythm.
The gate guards were not much better.
Old Man Al stood upon the wall-walk, tapping one boot against the timber while Fenton slept beneath him. The old guard hummed along for a moment before finally giving in and joining the song.
"Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream—
If you see a barbarian,
Don't forget to scream! Aaaagh!"
Fenton jolted awake and barked in confusion at the sudden scream. After deciding that his master was merely being strange again, the sheepdog lowered his head and went back to sleep.
Inside the Dancing Dragon, another burst of applause shook the common room as Lily finished her latest song.
She sat upon the little stage with the old lute resting against her, one eyebrow twitching.
That made five children's songs.
Five songs meant for toddlers, now being shouted by grown farmers and craftsmen deep into their cups. Farms, boats, stars—at this rate, Lily feared she was permanently shaping Albion's musical culture for the worse.
Yet the children kept begging for more, and Lily had never been good at refusing people who asked nicely, especially snot nosed children.
Besides, it was difficult to regret making them happy. She had expected the villagers to laugh at her. Instead, they laughed because they were enjoying themselves. Children beamed up at her, parents clapped along, and even the tired laborers looked lighter than before.
Unfortunately, happiness could not fill her stomach.
It growled beneath the lute.
The innkeeper watched from behind the bar, clearly pleased by all the extra ale being sold, but he had yet to offer Lily food, coin, or a room.
Fine.
Lily of the Lake did not beg. If nobody rewarded her, she would keep singing for the smiles and find somewhere inside the walls to sleep afterward.
Hopefully sleeping on village grass was legal.
The crowded inn had also become unbearably hot. Between the candles, kitchen fires, and dozens of bodies, Art's heavy cloak felt like a furnace.
Lily set the lute aside and untied it.
The black cloth slipped from her shoulders and pooled behind her, revealing the simple leather clothing she had made for life in the forest. It was strange by village standards, but practical, light, and easy to move in.
Lily thought nothing of it. She placed her pouches beside the lute, lifted her water pouch, and drank.
The room grew quieter.
Without the cloak hiding her, she looked even more unlike anyone in Einsway—a barefoot forest child with almost-white hair, violet eyes, unfamiliar clothes, and the clear health of someone untouched by the hardships marked upon nearly everyone else.
The adults whispered.
The children merely waited for another song.
Near the front stood a sturdy brown-haired youth several years older than Lily, with the weathered hands and watchful eyes of a hunter in training. He had spent most of the evening listening from behind the younger children, curious about the strange little performer beneath the hood.
Now he could only stare.
To him, she seemed almost unreal: part noble child, part wild forest spirit, and somehow more striking than either. She looked like someone from an old tale, yet stood with the confidence and easy balance of a person who belonged beneath open skies.
Lily lowered the water pouch and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. And when her eyes happened to meet his, she gave him a wide, friendly smile.
The boy went completely still, and his expression changed with all the subtlety of a falling tree.
His friends noticed immediately. One elbowed him, while another began grinning.
Lily noticed none of it. She was only pleased that someone else appeared to be enjoying the performance.
The boy ignored his friends, gathered what remained of his courage, and called toward the stage.
"I think I've fallen in love with you! What's your name?"
The entire inn erupted with laughter.
The young hunter's face turned scarlet, but to his credit, he did not retreat.
Lily blinked at him, caught completely off guard.
Then she remembered that this was apparently part of being a famous performer. Audiences shouted ridiculous declarations at singers, and singers answered with equally ridiculous enthusiasm. It was all part of the show.
Probably.
She placed one hand proudly over her heart and lifted her chin.
"I am Lily, the Shining Star!" she proclaimed.
Then she pointed back at him with a bright, playful smile.
"And I love you too, loyal fan!"
The boy nearly folded where he stood.
His friends caught him by the shoulders before his knees could give way, shouting congratulations while the inn erupted into fresh laughter.
Lily smiled, satisfied that everyone had enjoyed the joke.
She gave the stunned young hunter no further thought. He, meanwhile, looked as though fate itself had descended from heaven, pointed at him, and announced that his life now had purpose.
Lily picked up the lute again and turned toward the card players near the center of the room. Their game had stopped, though several small piles of copper still sat beside their mugs.
The sight stirred an old melody in her memory.
That settled it.
Enough nursery songs.
If Lily was going to reshape Albion's musical culture, then she needed to do it properly. These people required songs about hard work, long roads, poor decisions, lost coin, open country, and old men who discovered wisdom only after ruining most of their lives.
They needed country music.
They needed dusty roads, lonely gamblers, muddy boots, stubborn pride, and the grand spirit of a distant place called the American South.
None of those things existed here.
That was Future Albion's problem.
Lily pointed dramatically toward the card players.
"This next song is for you suspicious gambling men!"
One of them lifted his mug and glanced around the table.
"Us?"
"Yes, you," Lily said. "It is story of wise old gambler who gives important advice to foolish people losing all their money."
The gamblers exchanged amused looks.
Lily settled the lute against herself and found the opening rhythm almost at once. The melody rose easily from Bruce's memories, while her smaller, quicker fingers moved across the strings with a precision his old hands had never possessed. Even her voice was better now—clearer, softer, and far more suited to music.
For once, her strange new body had improved something.
These villagers had never heard country music. They knew farms, rivers, muddy roads, hard work, bad harvests, lost money, and long days beneath an open sky, but no one had turned those ordinary struggles into songs for them.
Lily intended to correct that.
So she began with the gamblers.
Her first song told of a weary traveler meeting an old card player on a lonely road. In exchange for a drink, the gambler offered a lifetime of hard-earned wisdom: never risk what you could not afford to lose, never confuse pride with courage, and always leave before greed began making decisions for you.
The children listened quietly. The card players understood much more.
Several nodded along. One man slowly covered his pile of copper with his hand, while another muttered that the song seemed personally insulting.
When Lily struck the final chord, mugs hammered against tables and the gamblers demanded another.
So she gave the rest of the inn songs of their own.
She sang for farmers who rose before sunrise, hunters following tracks through rain, fishermen waiting patiently beside dark rivers, and woodcutters returning home with aching shoulders. She sang for women keeping homes alive through lean winters, for girls dreaming of lives beyond village walls, and for mothers who somehow found enough food even when the cupboards looked empty.
The songs were simple. A steady lute, an easy chorus, and words ordinary people could understand and remember.
That was the strength of country music.
It did not need an orchestra or a royal hall. It needed only a voice, a few strings, and someone willing to sing honestly about life.
Lily stood as she played, tapping one bare foot against the stage and swaying with the rhythm. Soon she added little turns, quick steps, and dramatic movements of her hips and shoulders copied from old performers Bruce had watched on television. Nothing complicated—just enough showmanship to make the villagers clap and laugh.
The children tried to imitate her.
The drunker adults did too, with much worse results.
Then Lily struck a brighter tune and raised her voice.
"This one for all countryside people!"
The farmers cheered immediately.
She sang about muddy boots and honest hands, about planting something small and watching it grow, about fishing in quiet water and walking home beneath the sunset. She sang that simple work was not shameful merely because nobles did not praise it. There was beauty in shaping wood, tending animals, harvesting grain, and seeing the proof of your labor standing before you.
City people might dream of gold, silk, crowded streets, and houses piled upon houses.
Lily wanted rivers, forests, open fields, and enough room to breathe.
She sang of land rich enough to feed anyone willing to work it, of thanking God for another morning, and of loving life even when rain came, tools broke, and crops sometimes failed.
The villagers quickly learned the chorus.
Before long, the entire inn was singing with her.
Farmers raised their mugs. Women clapped in rhythm. Children danced beneath the stage. Even the gamblers joined in, though one kept a protective hand over his copper.
Lily moved from one song to the next, changing the rhythm and message for each part of the room. Some were playful, some proud, and others gentle enough that conversations faded while people listened.
Yet the dancing soon became too much.
Her legs already ached from days of travel, and the warmth of the crowded inn made her light-headed. After one last energetic turn, Lily nearly stumbled over the edge of the stage.
She recovered with great dignity.
Mostly.
Then she sat upon the stool and chose slower songs, letting the lute carry more of the performance. Her voice softened as she sang of distant roads, lost homes, quiet love, and people continuing onward even when they did not know what waited beyond the next hill.
The villagers listened.
They did not know the American South, cowboys, ranches, or any of the history behind the music. But they understood work, family, regret, hope, and the desire for a better tomorrow.
That was enough.
And while Lily filled the Dancing Dragon with songs of open land and honest labor, darkness gathered over Einsway.
Storm clouds rolled down from the north, swallowing the stars one by one. The moon vanished, and soon the forest, fields, and river disappeared beneath a blanket of black. For miles around, the Dancing Dragon stood as the only point of light against the approaching storm.
Lightning suddenly split the sky.
For one brilliant instant, the northern gate guard saw two riders approaching along the road.
Both wore black from head to toe, with heavy cloaks hanging from their shoulders and dark cloth covering the lower halves of their faces. Only their eyes remained visible beneath their hoods. Massive two-handed swords rose above their backs, their hilts and sheaths only partly concealed by the cloaks.
Even at a distance, neither rider could be mistaken for an ordinary traveler.
They were large, powerfully built, and carried themselves with the quiet confidence of men who expected the road to move aside for them. Their black stallions were equally imposing—huge warhorses packed with muscle, each step controlled and heavy with strength.
Thunder rolled overhead as the first drops of rain began to fall.
The riders did not quicken their pace.
They simply continued toward the gate while music drifted faintly across the walls.
When challenged, the older rider raised one hand and revealed a golden dragon crest.
The guard stiffened.
He bowed at once and hurried to open the gate.
Inside the Dancing Dragon, Lily had just finished another country song.
By now, she had accepted that the villagers were probably not going to reward her voluntarily. They cheered, drank, sang along, and demanded more, but nobody seemed interested in offering food, coin, or a bed.
Her remaining hope rested with the innkeeper suddenly stepping forward and declaring that she had done wonderfully and earned a large meal, a comfortable room, and perhaps a permanent title as Albion's first great musical star.
So far, he appeared more interested in selling ale.
Lily felt light-headed. Her arms were tired, her legs ached, and her stomach had begun protesting loudly enough that she feared the people nearest the stage might hear it.
She needed something slower.
Something she could perform while sitting down.
Settling onto the stool, Lily rested the lute against herself and began a low, steady melody. Her voice softened as she sang of an ancient warrior carrying the heart and blood of a dragon. The hero's voice held forgotten power, and his arrival promised the destruction of Albion's enemies and the end of a long darkness.
For the final verse, Lily added fragments of the strange dragon language she remembered from an old game.
The last note faded.
Applause followed, mixed with puzzled whispers.
Nobody understood what she had just sung.
One man climbed onto his chair and pointed toward the stage.
"Is it true?" he demanded. "You speak of King Uther and the Pendragon bloodline, do you not?"
Lily stared at him.
She had merely sung a nostalgic song that happened to contain dragons. She had not expected an interrogation about royal genealogy.
Still, fifty people were now watching her.
"I might," Lily said mysteriously. "Or might not. It is very old legend. Story of unnamed hero with dragon blood, chosen to destroy evil and bring peace. That all I can say."
It was vague nonsense, but the man nodded as if she had confirmed everything.
"It must be Uther!" he announced to the room. "Was it not our king who crossed the Channel with only twenty knights and slew the great sea serpent Galgazar?"
Several villagers shouted their agreement.
"The beast was said to stand taller than a hundred men!" the speaker continued. "No ordinary warrior could have killed such a creature. But King Uther possesses the strength of ten men. Now we know why—the Pendragon line must carry the blood of dragons!"
Lily sat in stunned silence.
She had sung one song.
One.
And these people were already constructing a national creation myth around it.
Another man called from the crowd, "Then what does the song mean for Albion?"
The man on the chair raised both hands.
"Is it not obvious? The girl's earlier songs spoke of our blessed fields, our rivers, and our freedom. Now she sings of a dragon-blooded hero defending Albion!"
His voice rose dramatically.
"This is God's country! We are the chosen people!"
The inn erupted.
Men raised their mugs. Women applauded. Even the children pumped their fists and shouted words they probably did not understand.
Lily felt a drop of nervous sweat slide down her temple.
Holy shit. Did I just create fanatical nationalists?
Perhaps singing so many songs about blessed land, freedom, and proud country folk had been a tactical mistake.
Outside, rain began striking the windows in heavy sheets. Thunder shook the roof, momentarily drowning out the cheering.
Lily needed to calm them down before someone declared a holy war against the neighboring village.
She changed to a softer rhythm, and the cheering gradually faded.
"This last song is a love song," she announced. "So everyone breathe and stop planning conquest."
A few people laughed.
Outside, rain hammered against the windows while thunder rolled over Einsway. Lily began to sing of a lonely traveler searching through crowded roads and long summer days for someone she could never quite find.
Her fingers moved gently across the strings.
The song followed the traveler into the night, through wind and rain, until she finally reached a warm inn and decided to wait there beneath the candlelight.
Lily's voice softened as she reached the final verse.
She sang of the doors opening in the middle of a storm.
Of someone walking inside with rain in his hair, swept back from his face.
Of a familiar smile striking her like a hurricane.
The Dancing Dragon's double doors flew open with a violent bang.
Wind and rain burst into the common room, making candles flicker and cloaks snap beneath the sudden draft.
Lily's fingers faltered.
Two figures stood in the doorway, dressed entirely in black. Water streamed from their heavy cloaks, and enormous swords rose behind their shoulders while lightning flashed across the night behind them.
The younger one lowered the cloth covering his face and pushed back his hood.
His golden-blond hair was soaked and swept away from his forehead exactly as the song had described. Pale blue eyes searched the room before settling upon Lily, and the moment he saw her sitting on the stage with the lute in her arms, that familiar, arrogant smile appeared.
The final word died in Lily's throat.
Art.
The sight of him struck her harder than the storm outside.
Her heart gave one sudden, traitorous leap. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and for a moment she forgot the song, the audience, and every sensible thought she had ever possessed.
How?
Had he not said something about visiting his future bride? Why was he here? Why now, while she was singing a love song about someone walking into an inn during a storm?
Part of Lily wanted to dive behind the stage and remain there until winter.
The rest of her could not stop staring.
Art looked unfairly good in black, rain shining in his hair and that insufferably confident smile aimed directly at her.
Stupid handsome rival.
Behind him entered Reinheart, towering beneath his soaked cloak. His scarred face remained partly hidden in shadow, but his enormous frame and the massive sword on his back made several villagers move instinctively from his path.
The inn had fallen silent.
Conversations stopped. A few people lowered their heads, while others whispered without daring to stare openly. Whether they recognized the two travelers or merely understood that men carrying swords that large were best treated carefully, Lily could not tell.
Are they really that important?
Art finally looked away from her and surveyed the quiet room.
Then he drew out a heavy pouch and tossed it onto the bar. Gold flashed inside as it landed.
"Drinks are on me."
The villagers erupted into cheers louder than anything Lily had earned all night.
She stared at them in betrayal.
Apparently, even music could not compete with free alcohol.