Third-Person (Mira's Perspective)
Mira pressed the parchment notice onto the tavern's bulletin wall, smoothing it flat with trembling fingers. The nail securing the top left corner went in crooked, and she had to tap it twice more with the hammer to get it to bite. With each tap, the tavern's low chatter dipped as nearby villagers glanced her way, then quickly looked down again. No one wanted to meet her eyes while she posted a missing notice for Father Aram. It made the disappearance too real.
The parchment bore a charcoal sketch of the priest's kindly face, drawn from memory by one of the farmers' wives. Beneath it, Mira had written in bold strokes: "MISSING: Father Aram, village priest. Last seen dawn yesterday at south ward line. Any information welcome. Pray for his safety."
Pray for his safety. Mira swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She had considered writing "Reward offered," but with what coin? And by whom? The village coffers were meager, and mercenaries rarely came this way. Instead, the best she could do was beg for prayers.
She stepped back, dusting her hands on her apron. The guard captain, Deren, stood by her side as a silent pillar of support. He cleared his throat. "I'll spread word to the patrols to keep an eye out for him," he said quietly.
"Thank you," Mira replied, mustering a small smile. Captain Deren had known Father Aram since they were boys; she could see the worry etched in the creases around his eyes.
As Mira turned, her gaze swept the tavern common room. It was fuller than a usual afternoon—villagers clustering together for comfort and news. Normally at this hour, only a few traders or farmhands would linger over late lunch. Today, families sat in tight groups, talking in hushed voices. Mothers kept children close. A couple of elders were leading a soft prayer in one corner, the same prayer Mira had heard at least four times today: a plea for the Sun's light to shield their homes from darkness.
She wished it eased her own fear more. But she knew these people looked to her almost as they had to Father Aram. She had been his assistant, his brightest student. Not a holy woman, not officially, but close enough now that he was gone. If she fell apart, so would they.
So Mira squared her shoulders and moved to the center of the room. "Everyone," she said, projecting her voice with a confidence she did not truly feel. Conversations died down; eyes turned to her.
"Everyone, please remember: at sunset, gather in the village square. We'll light the signal bonfire and stay together until dawn. No one wanders alone tonight." She caught the eye of a few known wanderers—old Garrick who liked to stargaze, young Nia who often snuck off to meet her sweetheart. Mira softened her tone. "If you must travel between houses, go in pairs or more. Safety is in numbers and under the ward lights."
A murmur of acknowledgment ran through the crowd. Some looked relieved to have clear instructions; others just grim.
Mira continued, "The three visitors—Aren, Leo, and Ren—they will be out dealing with this threat. We need to do our part by staying safe and staying out of their way."
Her gaze landed on Boran, the stocky miller, who was nursing an ale by the bar. He'd been grumbling that morning about "outsiders bringing more trouble." He avoided her gaze now by taking a long swig from his tankard. Mira held back a frown. Boran had been acting strange even before Father Aram disappeared—often away from the village on "business" and coming back skittish. She made a mental note to keep an eye on him tonight if he showed more odd behavior.
"Let's also remember," she added, voice softening, "to pray for those we've lost and those still missing. Father Aram, and the two farmers who vanished last week. They would want us to keep hope."
We'll get them back, she told herself, gripping her hands together. If there was one tiny mercy in all of this, it was that she hadn't found Father Aram's body. Without a body, hope remained.
As she stepped away, villagers came up to pat her shoulder or offer thin, brave smiles. She returned each gesture as genuinely as she could. When most had gone back to eating or praying quietly, Mira finally allowed herself to sag against the bar for a moment. Captain Deren gave her a nod of respect before he exited to resume his duties.
"You did well, lass," murmured old Selda, the tavern keeper, as she slid a cup of watered wine to Mira. "Hard to keep folks calm in times like these, but they trust you."
Mira accepted the cup with a grateful nod and took a sip. The tart liquid steadied her a bit. "I just… said what Father Aram would have said." Her voice wavered on his name. She distracted herself by glancing at the notice on the wall again, ensuring it was visible. It was directly beneath an old sun-bleached painting of the Sun King's crest that hung as decor. The golden sun emblem seemed to watch over the sketch of Father Aram.
Come home safe, she prayed silently. Please. I'm not ready to do this without you.
The tavern door opened, drawing Mira's attention. Ren and Leo entered together, their presence instantly noticeable. Ren's tall frame and serious demeanor caused a few conversations to hush. Leo, carrying a bundle of notes, looked both excited and troubled. They made for an odd pair—one like a silent blade, the other like a scholar who forgot to eat—but Mira had seen how coordinated they and Aren were at the gate. That memory gave her hope.
She caught Selda giving the two newcomers an appraising once-over, as any tavern keeper would with unfamiliar faces. "They've been good to us so far," Mira said preemptively. "Whatever they order, first round is on the house. My thanks."
Selda's lined face creased in a smile. "Of course, dear."
Mira moved from the bar, intending to greet them, but saw they already had a destination: the corner table where Aren was animatedly conversing with Jorrin and Pell, two local farmers. Or more like interrogating with charm, perhaps. Aren had a very casual posture, leaning back with one boot up on a stool, but Mira didn't miss how keen his eyes were as Pell described something with wide arm gestures. That must be Pell recounting the night he saw blue lights flitting near the graveyard. For the third time. Still, Aren listened like it was the most fascinating tale in the world, even laughing at Jorrin's interjection about drunk fireflies.
Despite the weight on her heart, Mira felt a tiny smile tug at her lips. Aren had a way of lightening dark moments. She recalled him earlier joking about being a bat farmer. It was absurd—and yet it made a few villagers laugh, including her. They needed that more than they knew.
Ren and Leo reached the table, and the farmers politely scooted their chairs to make room. Mira stepped forward, finally catching Aren's eye.
He gave her a two-finger salute in greeting. "Ah, speak of the angel. Mira, just who we needed."
"Needed?" she asked, a bit perplexed.
"A mediator," Aren quipped. "These two claim the lights Pell saw were just marsh gas. Pell claims he knows the difference between gas and ghosts."
Jorrin, the older farmer, flushed. "I only said—"
Ren cleared his throat, and instantly everyone fell quiet. He wasn't loud; he didn't need to be. "We can discuss lights later. Leo has news."