By now, the musician had returned to his stool at the front of the room and began a lively jig. With the food still on its way, I stood and extended my hand to my mother.

  Some people spend their lives chasing perfection, always searching for that elusive piece that will complete them. I’ve never found it either. But when I’m dancing, everything else fades away. I forget my shortcomings, my doubts, and I become one with the music. It’s just the rhythm, my partner, and me—a perfect triangle of harmony. The beauty lies in its simplicity.

  Without a word, my mother took my hand. My father chuckled from his seat. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, Vidal, or the first dance would’ve been mine,” he said, his voice barely rising above the tavern's din. He continued, his words even quieter than before. “Just make sure you’re careful with her.”

  “Hush, hush,” my mother replied, a playful edge to her voice. “You turned him into this all those years ago.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time with her after dinner,” I said with a grin. It was only half true. Mother was only good for a dance or two.

  Seeing us heading toward an open space, the bard skillfully transitioned into a slower, more intricate beat. He knew a livelier jig would be too much for her health, but this was perfect—something complex yet graceful. The crowd, except for the Redcoats, grew quiet, eager to watch.

  I gently took my mother’s right hand in my left, our other arms resting comfortably around each other. For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause. The ground beneath me felt solid, my feet found their rhythm, and then we were moving, flowing together with the music.

  We began in a tight circle, our bodies in close, like two cubs playfully wrestling at dawn. Our smiles lit up the room as we glided effortlessly, our feet following the beat. In that moment, it was just the two of us, lost in a distant, carefree land, rolling down a hill.

  The tempo of the song quickened slightly as I spun my mother out to face me. We dashed and twisted, our movements unpredictable, yet somehow perfectly coordinated. Our feet tapped the floor in flawless synchronization, sometimes shifting between predator and prey, and at other times, the roles reversed—fluid and ever-changing.

  As the peak of the song drew near, I guided my mother through a series of intricate loops and twirls, careful to ensure each movement was smooth and graceful, never too abrupt or risky. We ended with her falling gently toward me, her body light in my arms. The music swirled into a whirlwind of energy as I lifted her back up and spun her once more.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Kendra watching us. I made momentary eye contact, emboldened by the dance . She quickly looked away, but not before I saw the faint pink flush of her cheeks. Victory settled in my chest as I guided my mother back to our table, thanking her for the beautiful dance. The room buzzed with conversation once more.

  Jules, rolling his eyes, muttered, "Show-off."

  Abragale smirked and glanced at him. “Please, like you wouldn’t have done the same if you had a skillful lead.”

  "Looks like I taught you well," my father said, his voice thick with emotion.

  The food arrived just in time, sparing us from any further conflict. We dug in, savoring every bite, and the lively atmosphere of the tavern seemed to reach its peak. The bard, returning to his stool, began another jig, and the voices in the inn rose in harmony, blending with the rhythm of the music.

  A few others stood and joined in the dance, and my father, his eyes gleaming with mischief, turned to my mother. "Would you delight me with your presence for a brief song? But only if you’re feeling up to it."

  "Of course," my mother replied with a smile, her eyes twinkling.

  I turned to Jules, unable to resist a grin. "Do you want to dance a quick one as well?"

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  "Frankly," she said softly, "I’d rather watch. I wouldn’t want to miss the most beautiful scene of the year."

  She was right. Watching father and mother dance together was like witnessing an artist painting with their eyes. The elegance and grace between them were unmatched, and when they danced they would join the other couples, blending in with the joyous energy of the room. My heart always swelled with happiness at the sight of them moving in sync, lost in their own little world of rhythm and love.

  But as the song neared its end, and they began to move towards the center of the room, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. A soldier, his brooch glinting in the dim light, slapped a hand heavily onto my father's shoulder. "That’s a pretty wench you got there," he said, his voice loud and too casual. "Mind if I did a jig with her?"

  I leaped to my feet and rushed forward, my heart pounding in my chest.

  My father immediately straightened, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the soldier. He frowned deeply, his voice steady but firm. "My apologies, Red, but we were about to dance ourselves."

  The soldier’s smile was grim, almost mocking. "You can address me as Private Penny." His eyes flicked over to my mother, who stood nervously beside my father. "Now, since you’ll have plenty of time with her later, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sharing her for a dance."

  A cold shiver ran down my spine as I glanced at my mother’s fearful expression. It was never good to attract the attention of a soldier, especially one sober enough to make a bold demand like this. The tavern fell into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, and slowly, people began to distance themselves from us.

  After a long pause, my father spoke, his voice strained as he reluctantly defused the situation. "You may borrow her," he said quietly, always the peacemaker. As usual, he was avoiding the conflict, stepping back rather than confronting it directly.

  The soldier scoffed, his voice dripping with condescension. "Now be a good man and watch from afar, just like you’ll do tomorrow morning." He slapped a hand heavily onto my father's shoulder, his fingers digging into the muscle.

  The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable. My father’s fist clenched involuntarily, his face flushed with anger. As much as I wanted to see him stand up for himself, I knew he couldn’t take the soldier on directly—not here, not like this. I stepped in, my voice steady as I spoke. "Mother, I’m tired. Can we go home?"

  The soldier glared at me, his gaze cold, but my mother, quick to regain control of the situation, placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Vidal, we can go home after a quick jig. Mother needs to dance with this kind gentleman."

  Her smile was thin, forced, but she kept her composure. I could see the tightness in her jaw, the way she clenched her teeth to keep from reacting. The soldier, momentarily distracted, finally removed his hand from my father’s shoulder, then turned to lead her onto the floor.

  I watched as my mother followed him, her steps deliberate but stiff, her insincere smile in place as she was twirled around by the soldier. I could feel the knot in my stomach, the anger bubbling up. I knew my father saw it too—he always saw too much or too little.

  I had had enough. “You’re a coward!” I spat, jabbing my finger into my father’s chest with an accusing force. My earlier conversation with Ludwick felt like a dim haze now, dulled by the flames of my anger. “Why do you never defend yourself? Why not defend your wife?”

  Paul’s gaze remained steady, his voice calm. “He wanted a fight. Fighting is a singletrack path toward defeat.”

  “You need to fight to defend what’s important to you!” I shot back, the words tearing from my chest. “You can’t avoid everything in life. If you won’t stop him, I will!”

  I stood, every fiber of my being ready to rush at the soldier, to take the consequences of my actions with whatever came next. But my father stepped in front of me, his hand raised in a silent plea for me to stop.

  “After you live the life I did,” he said quietly, “you’ll realize that I’m right. Now settle down. She’ll dance one jig, and then we can all dance together and celebrate her birthday. Don’t let your anger bring out the worst in you.”

  “I’ll never live the life you did! I’m not like you.” The words tore at me, and I saw the soldier leading my mother in a dance, his grip surprisingly gentle. She seemed more at ease now. Nothing had happened. The soldier, for all his arrogance, seemed to know where to place his feet, like a partner trained for the steps. My father still blocked my way, standing between me and the soldier, blocking my path to action. Could he be right? I felt the frustration surge, a wave I couldn’t control, and it boiled over. “It’s not always my fault!” I slapped his hand away with an angry motion, storming out of the inn, barely aware of the stunned expressions on my sisters’ faces.

  He wouldn’t protect his wife. He wouldn’t protect his town. I’d show him. I’d show everyone that I wasn’t like him, that I wasn’t a coward. I’d prove I was strong enough to fight, to become a man in the only way I knew how. I’d burn out the widower’s nest with the Redcloaks and make everyone see me for what I was.

  At that moment, I truly believed my father was a coward. All the children did. But what I said that day has weighed on my soul like iron ever since. It took me a lifetime to understand that cowardice is a form of virtue—and that any conversation with family could be the last.