A Song & Dude

If anyone had told me that my life would be saved by a wine-stained man emerging from a barrel like some half-drunk forest sprite, I would have assumed they'd taken a lute to the head. Yet there he was—tunic askew, hair a disheveled disaster, and a grin that somehow made me want to scream and swoon at the same time.

I had been performing at the Golden Harp Tavern—admittedly, a downgrade from court salons, but the acoustics were adequate and the ale sufficiently numbing. My song had barely reached its third stanza when five particularly grabby drunkards decided that I should accompany them next.

Enter: the barrel.

"I wouldn't," came a gravelly voice, followed by a crack as the lid of a barrel popped open like a poorly wrapped gift. "Touch her," he yawned, "and I turn you into a bad rhyme."

The five men laughed. Then he stood up.

They did not laugh long.

Watching him fight was a bit like watching a goose chase a cat—chaotic, inexplicable, and surprisingly effective. Chairs shattered, mugs flew, and I could have sworn he apologized to a bar stool mid-swing.

When the dust finally settled, he turned to me and gave a bow so lazily off-kilter I nearly applauded.

"Are you injured?" he asked, inspecting me like I was a delicate pastry.

"No," I said, blinking. "But your hair is. It appears to have fought a separate battle and lost."

He laughed, loud and genuine. "Dude," he said, extending a hand.

"Excuse me?"

"My name. Dude."

I blinked. "Are you certain?"

"Most days."

He insisted on escorting me after I admitted I might be ever-so-slightly running from a powerful duke with a bruised ego and a particular distaste for public satire.

"Why is he angry?" Dude asked as we walked under starlight.

"I sang about his unfortunate resemblance to a toad."

Dude nodded solemnly. "Artistic honesty. Dangerous stuff."

He was ridiculous. Infuriating. Maddeningly clever when he wanted to be. He flirted like he breathed—incessantly—and yet there was a softness beneath the swagger. He gave me space to sing, to laugh, to exist without apology.

Somewhere between dodging bounty hunters and sharing a cramped inn bed under the guise of "body heat preservation," I realized I was in terrible danger.

I was falling for him.

Caelmoor's rooftops were not designed for graceful escapes, but we made do—him with brute force and poorly timed jokes, me with whispered incantations and righteous indignation.

At one point he carried me across a crumbling archway, muttering, "If I drop you, it's because your sass weighs a ton."

When we were finally safe—bloodied, breathless, and absurdly victorious—he turned to me, moonlight catching the mischief in his eyes.

"Sing with me?" I asked.

"I don't sing," he murmured.

I leaned in, my voice barely a whisper. "Then hum."

And to my everlasting shock, he did. All night.

Now, I am once again singing before royalty, but this time, the words feel different. They are softer, warmer. Behind the melody, there is laughter, and behind the laughter, there is love.

He sits at the edge of the room, smirking like a man who knows all the wrong ways to behave—and has already tested most of them.

He winks. I almost miss a note.

I still don't know why I trust him. But I do.

And that, dear audience, is my greatest lament: I didn't just fall for a scoundrel. I fell for my scoundrel.