Crude Summoning

Jareth watched Ailwin vanish into the shadows, his jaw tightening as the man's words lingered in the stale tavern air. He traced a finger along the rim of his glass, gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid as if it might offer an answer.

Prove I'm worth the trade, is it? he murmured, his voice a low rasp, equal parts amusement and disdain. Funny how the ones dangling secrets always act like they’ve got the upper hand.

The stitching on his glove caught the light as he pushed the drink away, standing with a fluid grace that belied the simmering storm in his eyes. His staff leaned against the bar—a silent companion, humming faintly with restrained power. Jareth didn’t reach for it yet. Not here. Not now.

He tugged his cloak tighter around him, the weight of the necklace beneath his shirt pressing against his skin like a curse. Ailwin's words had hit their mark, digging under the scars Jareth had tried so hard to keep hidden. Grit, he'd said. A test. As if Jareth hadn't been tested every day of his life since he'd first dared to wield magic in a world that feared it.

I- hope I don't disappoint, Jareth muttered, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips.

He turned toward the door, his staff in hand now, Whatever lay waiting on this path, Jareth would face it. Not because he trusted Ailwin, but because he couldn’t afford not to.