📜 After the Theft

Juliette leans back in her chair, the stolen letter tucked neatly beneath her sleeve. The Dragoons remain oblivious, their attention fixed on Mira as she fusses over stables and billets. The satchel hangs lighter at the soldier’s side, but no suspicion stirs — not yet. Juliette tears another piece of bread, her smirk hidden behind the rim of her cup.

Melodie, meanwhile, watches the exchange with a mixture of awe and exasperation. She mutters under her breath a second time, “You’re going to get us killed,” though her eyes flick toward the hearth where the shadow dances more boldly now, as if aware of Juliette’s secret.

The tavern hums with competing rhythms, a fiddler’s tune, scraping lively by the fireside. The Dragoons’ voices, low and sharp, plotting their night watch while villagers’ return to their gossip, storm tales, phantom lights and what reason the dragoons could want with Larmes-sur-Mer, mugs of cidre and cups of wine begin to flow again.

Mira returns to Juliette and Melodie, her smile tight but practiced. She sets down another jug of wine, leaning just close enough to murmur, “Careful, mes dames. Trouble has a way of finding those who look for it.” Her eyes flick to Juliette’s sleeve, then to Melodie’s bagpipes, before she picks up their empty plates and disappears back into the kitchen.

Juliette’s fingers twitch against the hidden parchment. The letter feels heavier than its weight, stamped with the Black Gull insignia. Whatever it contains, it is more than coin — it is a secret worth guarding.

⚔️ The Entrance of Captain Vane

The tavern door swings open with a gust of salt air and the heavy tread of boots. Captain Bastien Vane steps inside, his coat stained from travel, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow that seems to stretch farther than it should. Behind him, the two troopers who had been questioning Juliette and Melodie snap to attention, joined swiftly by others from the square.

The room quiets. Dice stop clattering. The fiddler falters mid-tune.

Vane’s voice cuts through the hush, low and commanding.

“Is the priest here?”

The troopers exchange glances, shake their heads. Vane’s jaw tightens.

“Then back to the church. All of you. Stay sharp. If he’s hiding, he won’t stay hidden long.”

The Dragoons file out, boots thudding against the tavern floor, leaving only Vane and two of his men behind. He turns to Mira, who stands behind the bar, her flour-dusted apron still damp from the kitchen heat.

“We’ll sleep here. The bar’s fine. I’ve slept on worse.”

He doesn’t ask. Mira doesn’t argue. She simply nods, already reaching for clean tankards.

Juliette, tearing another piece of bread, mutters just loud enough for Melodie to hear.

“He’s slept on worse? I believe it. He dresses like he lost a duel with a curtain.”

Melodie snorts into her wine. Vane doesn’t react — but one of his troopers glances over, brow furrowed, unsure whether to laugh or report it.

Vane’s gaze sweeps the room, lingering on Juliette — her scarlet cloak, her dust-caked boots, the way she leans just a little too casually against the table. Then to Melodie, bagpipes slung across her back, eyes bright with mischief and music.

Outsiders. Not villagers. Not Dragoons. Not clergy.

He says nothing, but the flicker of recognition is there — a mental note made, a thread tucked away for later.

Juliette meets his gaze with a half-smile, the stolen letter burning against her wrist like a secret. Melodie shifts in her seat, sensing the change in air, the way the tavern’s warmth now carries a chill.

The fire crackles. The shadow by the hearth stirs.

And somewhere beneath the floorboards of La Sirène Égarée, the night begins to turn.

🎶 Melodie Takes the Stage

Captain Vane moved with the slow certainty of a man who owned every room he entered. His boots rang against the tavern floor as he crossed to where Melodie sat, the firelight catching the brass of her bagpipes. He studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing, then spoke in a voice that carried more weight than volume.

“Can you play those things?”

Melodie straightened, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“I can. Better than most fiddlers, I’d wager. I once play a lullaby that made a demon nap”

Her tone light but edged with pride.

She rose, slinging the pipes across her shoulder, and beckoned Mira over with a wave and shouts, her voice carrying across the tavern,

“Madam, might I take the place of your fiddler by the fire? He looks ready for a rest, and I’ve a tune or two that might suit the night.”

Mira hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding, her eyes flicking between Vane and Melodie as if weighing the risk. Ever the diplomat, Mira walks over to the fiddler by the fire. A quick word, a conspiratorial smile, and the man shrugs, more than happy to rest his bow for the evening. He drops onto a bench with a sigh of relief, tankard already in hand. A ripple of laughter follows from nearby patrons — one calls out, “Finally, a night without your screeching!” Another adds, “Play something in tune for once!” The fiddler raises his drink in mock salute, unbothered.

Melodie, bagpipes slung across her shoulder, strides forward with the kind of confidence only hunger and desperation can fuel. She plants herself by the hearth, the firelight catching the brass of her pipes, and flashes a grin at the crowd, declaring,

“Ah, mes amis,I once serenaded a noble’s wig. It fell off.”

The room bursts into laughter.

She adjusts her pipes, letting the drone hum low before adding,

“I once played a song so haunting, it summoned my ex.”

A groan of sympathy and amusement ripples through the tavern.

The bagpipes drone into a jaunty reel, filling La Sirène Égarée with brassy bravado. Patrons stomp their boots, mugs slosh, and laughter rises with the tune. One man, flushed from too much local cidre, leans back in his chair and calls out something suggestive, his words slurred but his grin sharp.

Melodie doesn’t miss a beat. Growing up on the streets of Charouse taught her to parry words as deftly as blades. She flashes a grin, pipes still humming, and fires back:

“And I once kissed a prince. He turned into a frog. I regret nothing.”

The tavern erupts — laughter, whistles, even a few ribald cheers. The drunkard, caught off guard, raises his hands in mock surrender, while Mira smirks knowingly from behind the bar. Juliette, watching from the corner, shakes her head with a wry smile, muttering into her wine,

“Trust Melodie to turn heckling into theatre.”

The fiddler, now happily retired for the night, claps along as she launches into her first tune. The bagpipes fill La Sirène Égarée with a bold, brassy voice, weaving through the chatter and laughter. Patrons stomp their boots in rhythm, the dog under the bench howls along, and Juliette, watching from the corner, mutters dryly into her wine,

“Well, at least she’s paying for supper.”

Here’s a polished passage you could use in your blog, carrying the atmosphere forward from Melodie’s performance into the quiet tension of the night:

🌙 After the Music

Melodie’s playing lingered in the rafters long after the last note faded. The bagpipes had sung of joy and sorrow, of storms and hearth‑fires, weaving a spell that left the tavern hushed in awe. One by one, the patrons rose, laughter softened, and boots shuffled toward the door. Outside, the night swallowed them, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the scent of sardines and cider.

Captain Vane sat slouched in his chair, eyes closed, his hat tilted low. His two men mirrored him, sprawled against the bar with the heavy stillness of soldiers at rest. Yet there was something in Vane’s posture — the tension in his jaw, the faint twitch of his fingers — that made Juliette wonder if he ever truly slept. Men like him carried battles in their bones.

Melodie gathered her pipes, cheeks flushed from the performance, and exchanged a grin with Juliette. Together they slipped toward the stairs, the tavern now quiet save for the fire’s whisper. Mira watched them go, her expression unreadable, before turning back to polish tankards in the silence.

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked beneath their boots. The small room smelled of salt and woodsmoke, its single candle guttering against the draft. Juliette dropped her scarlet cloak across the bed, the stolen letter still hidden at her wrist. Melodie set her pipes carefully in the corner, as if laying down a weapon after battle.

The night pressed close around them. Outside, the sea sighed against the shore. Inside, shadows stretched long, and the question hung unspoken: did Captain Vane truly sleep, or did he wait, listening, for the storm to break again?

🌙 Upstairs at La Sirène Égarée

Juliette sits on the edge of her bed, unfolds the letter stolen from the satchel of Trooper “Rene Vallon” and reads it once.

To Brother Vallon,
Acting Field Operative, Office of the Inquisition

You are instructed to proceed with utmost discretion. Captain Vane has been tasked by the Crown to locate the relic known as the Siren’s Tear. His loyalty to the Sun King is unquestioned, but his understanding of the relic’s nature is… insufficient. He must not be allowed to interfere with our purpose.

Your objectives are as follows:

1. Locate Father Marais.
   He is suspected of heretical study and unlawful possession of relics. His Book of Wonders contains references to artifacts forbidden to the Church. He is to be taken alive if possible. If he resists, you are authorized to act with finality.
2. Secure the Siren’s Tear.
   The Tear was crafted to contain the last breath of a dying siren. Recent reports suggest the relic is unstable. Witnesses describe lights at sea, shadows that move without flame, and a faint bubbling glow near places where the Tear has been sighted.
   These manifestations must not be allowed to spread.
3. Do not reveal your identity to Captain Vane or his men.
   The Dragoons serve the Crown, not the Church. Should they discover your true purpose, they may attempt to seize the Tear for the Sun King. This cannot be permitted.
4. If Vane draws to near the truth, you are authorised to… redirect him.
   Subtlety is preferred. Necessity is understood.

The Tear must be recovered or destroyed.
Father Marais must be silenced.
The Crown must remain ignorant.

May the Flame guide your hand.
— Inquisitor‑Marshal Delacroix
Office of the Inquisition, Charouse.

Juliette read the letter twice, then a third time, the candle guttering as if it too recoiled from the words. The Inquisition. A hidden agent. Orders to seize or destroy the Siren’s Tear. Orders to silence Father Marais. Orders to mislead Captain Vane.

She let out a slow breath, barely more than a whisper.

“Saints… this wasn’t meant for Vane at all.”

Melodie, half‑curled on her bed, opened one eye. Her voice was soft, but steady.

“I know where the Tear is.”

Juliette’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Melodie nodded toward the floorboards, toward the tavern below

“It’s downstairs. In plain sight. Mira keeps it close. She said it’s safer where everyone can see it — because no one ever looks at what’s right in front of them.”

Juliette stared at her, the weight of the letter suddenly heavier.

“And Vane… and his men… they’re sleeping right next to it.”

Melodie shrugged, though her eyes were troubled.

“If they even sleep.”

Before Juliette could reply, a gentle knock tapped at their door. Not urgent. Not fearful. Just… careful.

Melodie sat up. Juliette slid the letter beneath her cloak and whispered,

“Who is it?”

A familiar voice answered through the wood, low and steady.

“It’s Mira.”

Juliette and Melodie exchanged a look — the kind that carried a dozen questions and no answers.

Juliette crossed the room and cracked the door open.

Mira stood in the hallway, apron still dusted with flour, her expression tight with worry. Candlelight from the stairwell cast long shadows behind her.

She glanced past Juliette, making sure the room was empty save for the two companions. Then she leaned in, voice barely above a breath.

“We need to talk. Now. Before the captain wakes.”

Juliette stepped aside. Melodie swung her legs off the bed.

And downstairs, beneath their feet, the Siren’s Tear glimmered faintly in the firelight — unseen, unguarded, and far more dangerous than any of them yet understood.

To be continued.