The

  energy of the Revel had shifted, the earlier chaotic exuberance now

  coalescing into a focused anticipation. The crowd, a riotous tapestry of

  fantastical beings, began to gravitate towards the grand stage.The

  stage itself was a marvel, a colossal platform crafted from interwoven

  branches of ancient trees, their silver-barked surfaces shimmering with

  phosphorescent moss. It pulsed with a soft, ethereal light, casting an

  otherworldly glow upon the clearing. The air thrummed with a palpable

  sense of magic, raising the hairs on my arms and filling my lungs with

  the scent of ozone and wild blossoms.

  As

  we joined the flow of the crowd, the cacophony of individual

  conversations began to subside, replaced by a hush that fell over the

  gathering like a velvet curtain. All eyes were now fixed on the elevated

  platform, where Hyrsam, resplendent in his horny glory, stood to

  address the expectant audience.

  His

  voice, amplified by some unseen magic, boomed across the clearing, rich

  and resonant as the deepest notes of a celestial choir.

  "Friends. Honored Guests. Children of the Feywild!" he proclaimed, his gaze sweeping over the assembled multitude.

  "The

  moment you have all been waiting for has arrived. The culmination of

  our grand celebration! The competition of the greatest of bards, where

  skill and artistry will vie for the patronage of the Seelie Court, the

  Goddess of Joy herself... and, well, me!"

  He

  beamed over the enthusiastic crowd, which erupted into wild cheers.

  Gently raising his hand to quiet them down, he continued theatrically.

  "The

  winners of this contest shall obtain boons beyond a mortal's wildest

  dreams; rewards of fame and fortune that shall echo throughout history!

  But, let the stakes be known: those who are judged to have failed in

  their artistic duty will remain in our service until the next Grand

  Revel, in another nine years!"

  Another

  deafening cheer erupted from the crowd, a wave of sound that washed

  over us, a symphony of whistles, applause, and the ululating cries of a

  thousand different voices. It was a sound that vibrated not just in the

  ears, but in the very bones, a primal chorus that spoke of unbridled

  passion and blissful chaos. The cheers were a cacophony of different

  voices, high-pitched giggles of pixies, deep bellows of treants, the

  trilling calls of fae birds, and the guttural growls of unseen beasts

  from the darker parts of the Feywild. It was a wave of pure,

  unadulterated enthusiasm tinged with cruelty, a tidal wave that

  threatened to sweep us off our feet and carry us away in its current.

  It was quite clear that these beings didn't care about who won or lost. Tonight, the mortals were here for their entertainment — and those who failed to entertain would pay dearly for the privilege.

  Hyrsam raised a hand, his gesture silencing the crowd with an almost supernatural swiftness.

  "We

  shall now hear from those brave souls who have dared to bare their

  hearts and souls before us," he continued, his voice softening with a

  hint of paternal pride. "Let us listen with open minds and open hearts,

  and may the best among them win our favor!"

  We watched attentively as the competing bards were called onto the stage one by one.

  The

  first performer was a diminutive gnome with a lute crafted from

  polished rosewood. His fingers, surprisingly nimble, danced across the

  strings, weaving a melody that was both intricate and melancholic. The

  tune spoke of lost love and forgotten forests, of fading starlight and

  the ephemeral nature of beauty. His voice, a high, clear tenor, carried

  the weight of ages, each note imbued with a profound sense of longing.

  Then

  came a tall, graceful elf, who sang a classic adventure ballad, her

  voice soaring and pure, like a nightingale in ecstasy. She accompanied

  herself on an expensive-looking enchanted harp, its strings shimmering

  with an inner radiance, each note a tiny explosion of pure magical

  energy.

  Next came the group

  of the three kobolds we saw practicing earlier, their scales gleaming

  under the lanterns and emerging moonlight as they launched into a

  surprisingly well-coordinated percussion piece. They used an assortment

  of instruments fashioned from hollowed-out logs, stretched animal hides,

  and clusters of rattling seed pods. Their music was raw, energetic, and

  certainly original: a tribal rhythm that pulsed with a primal

  vitality. They chanted in their guttural language, their voices a mix of

  growls, chirps, and hisses, creating a sound that was both alien and…

  strangely compelling.

  "Good job, little guys!" I thought to myself.

  Each

  performance was unique, a testament to the diverse talents and artistic

  traditions of the invited bards. Each invitee was the crème de la crème

  of their field. Each bard poured their heart and soul into their music,

  striving to capture the essence of beauty, sorrow, joy, and longing,

  and to weave it into a tapestry of sound. And the crowd responded in

  kind, their cheers and applause a reflection of the deep emotional

  connection forged between performer and listener.

  Sylvie

  and Karlach were practically vibrating with excitement. The two seemed

  to be having the time of their lives, grinning from ear to ear, eyes

  wide with childlike wonder as they took in the spectacle, cheering the

  performers enthusiastically.

  Astarion

  observed the proceedings with a more refined air. His posture was

  elegant and composed, a smirk playing on his lips. While he seemed to

  appreciate the skill of the performers, his gaze was distant, as if his

  mind was many miles away. Still, he occasionally tapped his foot, and

  one long-fingered hand occasionally moved in sync with the music. Gale,

  who stood next to him, seemed equally lost in thought -- though, that

  was because he seemed more interested in analyzing the flow of magic in

  the clearing than listening to the performers themselves.

  Lae'zel,

  predictably, remained stoic and impassive. Her gaze was fixed on the

  stage, but her expression was unreadable. Whether she was impressed or

  indifferent with the performances… was impossible to tell. Her body was

  rigid, her muscles coiled and ready, as if she expected a fight to break

  out at any moment.

  Shadowheart,

  standing slightly apart from the rest of the group, watched the

  performances with a mixed expression. There was a flicker of genuine

  appreciation in her eyes, but also a hint of sadness. Some of the more

  melancholic tunes seemed to resonate with her own troubled past, and she

  often bowed her head in a quasi-prayer that, I suspected, would go

  unanswered.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Alfira, of

  course, was among the most invested. Her earlier fear had been replaced

  by an excited determination. Her eyes shone with admiration for her

  fellow bards, and she seemed to be studying their techniques with an

  intense focus, occasionally mouthing the words to the songs.

  "You'll be fine," I whispered to her. "Just do your best with that ballad of yours; I know it will be enough!"

  She blushed cutely, nodding in appreciation.

  And then, it was the turn of the obnoxious bard from yesterday. Lysander.

  He

  strutted onto the stage with an exaggerated swagger as if he owned the

  place, his gaudy red-and-gold outfit shimmering under the stage lanterns

  and the light of the full moon overhead. His lute was held with an

  almost arrogant flourish. His smirk was wide and self-satisfied, his

  eyes gleaming with a predatory confidence that made my skin crawl. There

  was an unnatural stillness about him, as if he were a puppet controlled

  by unseen strings. He took a deep breath, his chest expanding

  dramatically, and then he began to play.

  The first few notes were… familiar.

  Unsettlingly so.

  A chill crept down my spine, a sense of dread tightening its icy grip around my heart.

  Then, the melody became unmistakable.

  …

  Alduin's wings, they did darken the sky,

  His roar fury's fire, and his scales sharpened scythes.

  …

  That motherfucker.

  It was "The Tale of the Tongues."

  Alfira's song.

  My

  blood ran cold and hot at the same time, as I felt a surge of fury so

  intense it threatened to consume me. Every muscle in my body tensed, my

  hands clenching into fists so tight my nails bit into my palms.

  I

  glanced at Alfira. Her eyes, wide and stricken, were fixed on Lysander

  with a look of utter disbelief mixed with a slowly dawning horror. Her

  breath hitched in her throat, and her body trembled, as if she had been

  struck a physical blow. All the color had drained from her face, leaving

  her skin ashen and pale.

  This

  was a cruel, calculated act; a violation of the deepest kind. To steal

  someone's song was to steal a piece of their soul, to rob them of their

  voice, their identity, their very essence. And to do it on this stage, in front of this audience, with so much at stake…

  It was an act of unimaginable malice.

  Was this Ethel's doing? It seemed likely.

  The

  thought of that hag's involvement, her long, clawed fingers pulling the

  strings from the shadows, made my fury burn even hotter.

  I

  wanted to storm the stage. To rip that lute from the smug bastard's

  hands and smash it to splinters. To drag him off the platform and…

  …

  But I forced myself to remain still.

  To breathe.

  To think.

  I

  knew that any rash action on my part would only make things worse.

  Perhaps I could survive fighting all of the fey present at once. The

  same, however, couldn't be said for my companions. Not to mention the

  danger my group would be in, any fight I started here would definitely

  disqualify Alfira, destroying any chance she had left, and would leave

  her even more vulnerable to Ethel's — and every other fey's — continued

  machinations.

  No. I had to find a way to salvage this... without resorting to violence.

  But how?

  My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, of anger and protectiveness, of a desperate need to help the poor girl.

  Lysander

  continued to play, his smirk widening with every note. He seemed to

  relish Alfira's pain, to feed on her despair. His performance was

  technically proficient. Flawless, even. But it lacked the heart, the

  passion, the raw emotional power that Alfira had poured into every

  single verse.

  It was a perfect, but hollow, imitation; a pale shadow of the original.

  Finally, the song ended.

  A

  smattering of applause rippled through the crowd, polite but subdued.

  Even the Fae, with their penchant for drama and spectacle, seemed to

  sense the wrongness of this performance. Lysander took a bow, his eyes

  fixed on Alfira. His smirk was triumphant, possessive, as if he had not

  only stolen her song but also her very being. Then, he turned and strode

  off the stage, disappearing into the shadows with a final, arrogant

  flourish.

  The murmurs of

  the crowd that followed added to the sense of unease and betrayal. I

  could feel Alfira's despair like a physical presence, a suffocating

  weight that pressed down on us all.

  Suddenly,

  a small figure darted through the crowd, a pixie with iridescent wings

  and eyes like glittering emeralds. She zipped through the air with

  incredible speed, landing gracefully on Hyrsam's shoulder. She whispered

  something into his ear, her voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

  Hyrsam's

  reaction was… telling. His brow shot up, his eyes widening in surprise.

  He glanced at Alfira, then at the retreating figure of Lysander, then

  back at Alfira again. A flicker of… something that might have been pity

  crossed his face.

  Then, he just shrugged, chuckling in quiet amusement.

  "The next performer," Hyrsam announced, his voice regaining its booming resonance, "is Alfira."

  A

  collective gasp rose from the crowd. It was a sound of shock,

  confusion, and a dawning realization of the sheer cruelty of the

  situation. Many of the fey have made bets on the outcome of this

  contest. Some have heard Alfira practice her ballad and knew well the

  original author of Lysander's song.

  Nevertheless, what Lysander had done was -- apparently -- within the letter of the rules if not their spirit.

  Alfira still had to compete.

  The

  poor tiefling bard flinched as if she had been struck. Her eyes darted

  around frantically, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to

  go. She was trapped. Trapped in this waking nightmare, forced to face

  the consequences of a Faustian bargain she had made in foolish

  desperation.

  Her breathing

  became rapid and shallow, her chest heaving with each ragged inhale. She

  was hyperventilating, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.

  I knew I had to act, and fast.

  I stepped closer to her, my voice low and urgent. "Alfira," I said, my gaze locking onto hers. "Look at me. Can you hear me?"

  She nodded weakly, her eyes filled with tears.

  "Do you trust me?" I asked, my voice firm but gentle.

  She

  hesitated for a moment, her gaze searching mine, her expression a

  mixture of fear and desperation. Then, slowly, she nodded again.

  "Good," I said. "Then listen to me very carefully."

  I

  leaned in close, so that my words were for her ears alone. I whispered

  my idea, my plan, my gamble, into the darkness of her despair. Her eyes

  widened as she listened, a spark of something that might have been hope

  flickering within their depths. When I finished, she took a deep,

  shuddering breath, her expression a mixture of terror and determination.

  Hyrsam cleared his throat, his voice echoing across the clearing.

  "Alfira,"

  he said, his tone brooking no argument. "It is your turn to perform.

  You may either take the stage, or forfeit your place in the

  competition."

  The weight of

  his words hung in the air, heavy with finality. It was a choice between

  the impossible and the unthinkable. Between facing the humiliation of

  performing a song that had already been stolen, or losing everything she

  had worked for... and still owing an unspecified favor to a

  hag. Alfira straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting with a newfound

  resolve. Her eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but her gaze was

  steady, her voice surprisingly firm.

  "I…

  I would like to delegate my turn," she announced, her voice trembling

  slightly but carrying across the hushed clearing, "to my

  representative."

  A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. Hyrsam raised a questioning eyebrow, looking at Alfira, then at me.

  "Your… representative?" he echoed, his voice laced with curiosity. "And who might that be?"

  Alfira took another deep breath, her gaze fixed on me with unwavering trust.

  "My agent in this competition" she declared, her voice growing stronger with each word, "is Harald."

  The

  crowd erupted in a cacophony of gasps, whispers, and murmurs. All eyes

  turned to me, their expressions a mixture of shock, disbelief, and a

  dawning sense of anticipation.

  The

  judges, four Archfey and a Goddess, exchanged glances. Titania, the

  Summer Queen herself, inclined her head in agreement, her consort,

  Oberon following her lead soon afterwards. Lliira, looking very

  distraught at what had been done to Alfira, quickly nodded as well.

  Hyrsam clapped his hands together with visible glee, his eyes sparkling with childlike excitement.

  "How unexpected! Nay… revolutionary! This… truly is the most fun I'd had at a Grand Revel in centuries — and we haven't even heard the grand finale yet!"

  A wide grin stretched across his face, revealing a set of surprisingly sharp teeth.

  "By all means," he boomed, his voice filled with amusement. "Let the Godling Harald play! Three pieces

  shall he perform for us this fine eve: one for the bard Alfira; one for

  himself; and one for the little Sharran under his protection."

  Hyrsam's voice slowly gathered strength until it became a booming thunder, further riling up the crowd.

  "This

  night, we shall see if he is up to the task of entertaining us. This

  night, we shall see if the newcomer shall win our patronage — or else,

  if him, Alfira, and their entire group shall remain here, in our esteemed service."

  The

  crowd erupted in a deafening roar, which gradually died down as I

  stepped forward, my Ebony guitar in hand, and began to walk slowly

  towards the stage.