06. Entering Neuvoterre

Every movement was sluggish, every glance awkward—the aftermath of a night that had been anything but restful. The air held a strange tension, thick with unspoken words as the group assembled for breakfast.   Lia and Cre were the last to awake, their faces shadowed with curiosity. The conversation meandered toward the previous night’s events, the details spilling out in slow, measured increments. Then, all eyes settled on Lark. Two wedding bands—two silent remnants of something deeply personal. The questions came, hesitant at first, then pressing.   Gwen, sensing the charged atmosphere, pulled a deck of cards from her satchel and offered Lia her first tarot reading. A harmless distraction—or so it seemed. But as the cards were turned over, shock rippled through the group. Lia stiffened, eyes widening in stunned recognition. "I—just had a dream about this person," she whispered.   Talon leaned forward, examining the card more closely. His brow furrowed before he exhaled, voice edged with disbelief. "This face... it looks like Lark."   A silence stretched, taut as a wire. Then, finally, Lark spoke. His voice was softer now, weighted with something old and aching. "I am a changeling," he admitted. "And this—this isn’t my face. It belonged to my late husband."   The room shifted, every expression reflecting varying degrees of understanding and unease. Cre, thoughtful, studied the card again. "The man on here looks like a friend," they mused. "But... you don’t. Maybe that’s why you seemed familiar, but not quite right."   Tension, disbelief, revelation—woven into the morning air like strands of something fragile yet irrevocable. And still, the journey had to continue.   Neuvoterre loomed ahead, its towering walls gleaming under the midday sun. The Autokart hummed as they approached the city's gates, but before they could disembark properly, Cas jumped off, landing with practiced ease. "Go on," he told them. "Deliver the goods. I’ll catch up."   Then—without hesitation—he strode directly into the stone wall and vanished.   Lark, stunned, followed after him, throwing out a hand and pressing his palm against the unforgiving surface. Solid. Unmoving. The guard stationed nearby chuckled, his grin crooked with amusement. "Tourists," he muttered, shaking his head.   The group pressed forward, hauling their cargo toward its rightful owner. The shop—Prancing Normalities—stood in disarray, streaked with crude markings from Puritanical hoodlums. Ollie, the centaur merchant, was already scrubbing at the vandalism, his movements brisk with irritation.   They worked together, unloading the goods. But as Lia lifted one of the heavier crates, something shifted in the atmosphere—a pulse of energy rippling outward. The wave of magic escaped her grasp, colliding with the shop’s walls and shelves. Wood splintered. Objects rattled. Then, silence.   Ollie stared, aghast, before hastily pushing them all toward the door. "Out! All of you!" he barked. "I need to clean up this mess."   With nowhere else to go, Talon led them down a quieter street, where a charming bookstore nestled among the market stalls. A crooked sign swung gently in the breeze: The Crow’s Nest.   Inside, the scent of ink and parchment mingled with aged wood. A slim Dwed, her demeanor effortlessly composed, glanced up from behind the counter. "You’re back," Rose noted, before gesturing toward the stairs. "Go on. Upstairs is yours."   And just like that, a semblance of refuge settled around them, however temporary.