Any day now.

There was something wrong about the way the words rolled off her tongue. They were pointy, bold, and crooked, but that was nothing new. What was new was the fact that Veralene noticed, that she was somewhat self-aware – as if she saw herself through a window and caught of glimpse of her own foolishness.

Normally the Breton had no problem being honest, but not with herself. You might say her mind was so narrow it could hide behind a straw. This was life providing another angle, turning her head ever so slightly to show her the crook of her nose. Yet not even that could sway her belief that her situation was temporary. All she had to do was place the amulet around her neck, and a horde of handsome barons would walk into the Skeever and fight to the death for the honor of making her rich. You’ll see, she’d say. Any day now.

In contrast, Fironet always knew. Every night a chorus of bards would amble in and out of the tavern, like a flock of noble seraphs on their way to the heavens. Jarls and Thanes had titles, but they seldom had presence. Bards were different. What good is owning a piece of land if you were born with wings? And she always believed her back was bare.

For her, those three words meant something else entirely. Any day now, she’ll have to say goodbye to Solitude. And every day after, she’ll find it hard to sing – because the memories of her failure will be stuck to every chord. Veralene worries her day will never come. Fironet prays to the Nine that she’s right.