The floor creaked again.
Then the bedframe groaned.
Then someone dropped a glass, shattering, followed by a whoop.
Then laughter. Shouting. A door slammed. A chair tipped. Boots stomped across floorboards.
Then singing, again, something about a goat and a lost boot.
And another creak.
Ilya lay in the dark, eyes open, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The ceiling stared back at him with a crack shaped like a bird's foot.
He hadn't moved in an hour.
Every time he thought silence was coming, someone in the tavern coughed, or shouted, or sang about a goat. Again.
Anna, two feet away on the same bed, was somehow asleep. Curled up in a nest of blankets, breathing softly, absolutely unaffected by the circus roaring beneath them.
He watched her for a moment, almost jealous.
Then the wall behind his head rattled from a sudden cheer below.
Ilya sat up sharply, cloak falling from his shoulders.
He couldn't do this.
The forest was loud in a different way, cracking branches, wind, breathing. But this? This was constant. Inescapable. Alive in every wall.
He stepped out of bed silently, careful not to wake Anna, and slipped on his boots.
The hallway was darker than the room, lit only by moonlight filtering in through thin windows. Old portraits watched him as he moved past. Some tilted. One with missing eyes.
He wandered.
Down one stairwell, past a locked storeroom. Then a turn. Then another corridor.
And then a narrow window at the end. Cracked at the frame. Just enough to feel the cold air bleeding in.
The latch had broken off, leaving the pane loose. He tested it.
It gave way with a low creak.
Outside was a sloped bit of roof, the third floor's outer ledge, edged in frost, coated in snowmelt and bird feathers. An old maintenance ladder leaned near the far corner, half-buried in snow.
It was stupid, and dangerous.
But quiet.
He didn't even hesitate.
The cold hit his lungs like a slap.
It cut through the murk in his chest like a blade, forced his breath to steady. Frost lined the roof tiles in uneven streaks, glistening silver beneath the moonlight. His boots slid slightly as he crouched, testing his balance.
Crystalis stretched wide beneath him.
Even in the dead of night, it pulsed with life, streetlamps burning soft amber, plumes of steam rising from iron chimneys, occasional flickers of movement in the alleys far below. But from up here, the noise was a hum.
And for once, he could hear his own thoughts.
Ilya sat carefully near the edge, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, cloak draped behind him like a shadow. His breath fogged gently in the air.
This felt more like him.
The roof groaned faintly with the weight, but held.
His eyes wandered, across glowing windows, across dark rooftops, across slivers of sky unbroken by firelight.
A dull thud echoed below.
Then another.
He leaned forward, squinting down over the edge toward the alley behind the tavern.
A figure, fast and focused, moved across the snow-dusted stone. Small frame, dark coat, wooden weapon in hand. Swinging.
Over and over again.
A straw training dummy leaned against the courtyard wall, patched with old cloth and split rope.
The girl struck it with raw force, no ceremony, no rhythm. Just repetition.
Ilya watched the blade angle.
Too wide. Too stiff. Elbow too locked.
But she didn't stop.
She reset her footing, narrowed her stance, and came again.
Another strike. She moved like she was trying to beat the memory of failure out of her limbs.
Yula.
He hadn't expected her to train.
He hadn't expected her to try so hard.
Yula's next swing landed with a crack, scattering straw across the frostbitten stones.
"Gonna keep staring, or are you planning to critique my footwork too?" she called.
Ilya flinched slightly at being caught.
Yula turned, resting the wooden sword across her shoulders. She was flushed from exertion, sweat clinging to her brow, her coat open, and boots scuffed from too many nights like this one.
"You've been up there a while."
Ilya muttered something that might've been a curse and climbed down the ladder with careful awkwardness. His boots scraped the brick as he landed on the ground with a soft grunt.
"You always watch people like that?" she asked.
He tilted his head. "Like what?"
"Like you're measuring everything. Like you already know better."
"Excuse me?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You think I'm sloppy, right?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
She tilted her head slightly and continued. "You fought her, didn't you?"
"…Who?"
"Tall, scary, not too friendly lady."
Ilya narrowed his eyes. "You know her?"
"Well enough."
Yula stepped aside, pulled a wooden sword from the snowbank near the dummy, and tossed it toward him.
He caught it midair on reflex.
"If you really are as good as people say, prove it," she challenged.
The wooden sword felt too light in Ilya's hand.
He turned it once, testing the weight. It wasn't balanced, not like a real weapon, but it didn't need to be. It was a conversation. One made without words.
"I've never held a sword," he muttered.
"Even better."
He stared at it again. Somehow, this made him feel more vulnerable than holding his Astra had. With his rifle, the distance made things easier. But this? This felt exposed.
Yula didn't wait for formality.
She had already taken her stance again, feet planted, arms tense. There was no fear in her eyes.
She struck.
The first exchange was messy. Ilya parried, but barely. The angle was wrong. His hand slid back too far. The wooden blade trembled in his grip.
Yula pressed fast, footwork sharper than expected. Her training was rough, but raw strength and determination filled the gaps.
Ilya moved on instinct. Duck. Deflect. Step left. His hands didn't remember, but his body adapted fast.
She drove him back. Again. Again.
He caught her rhythm after a dozen exchanges, but too late. A feint to his left shoulder opened his guard, and her blade tapped his ribs with a satisfying thunk.
"Point," she said, chest heaving.
He exhaled hard, blinking in surprise. Not at the hit, but that it worked.
He lowered the sword.
Yula stepped back, watching him.
"Not bad," she said. "And you learn fast."
"Am I supposed to thank you for that?"
They stood there for a second, swords lowered, breath fogging the air.
She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Let's do it again tomorrow."
"What—"
Before he could answer, she slipped inside, leaving only the faintest trail of footprints behind her.
Ilya stood in the dark for a while after that. Letting the frost settle. Letting the quiet return.
Above him, the sky blinked with faint stars between the city smog. Below him, the sword sat in his hand like it had weight again.
He looked at it.
"…I still prefer rifles," he muttered.
Then turned, and went inside.