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The sun rose slowly over Varan, pale and cautious, like it, too, wasn't sure it belonged here.
Kael hadn't slept.
Not really.
He'd kept watch from the wooden windowsill until the stars faded, the charm around his neck faintly pulsing, as if echoing some distant heartbeat. Below, the town woke without urgency. Chickens clucked. A bell rang in the orchard. Boots on gravel. Morning came like a ritual no one questioned.
Kael moved through the misty streets as one unseen.
The shrine on the hill called to him again, but this morning, something else pulled stronger. A ripple—barely there. Like a thought half-forgotten. It wasn't danger. It was… awareness. Measured. Cold. Watching.
He found her in the old library.
Tucked behind the apothecary, its stone steps overtaken by ivy, the building looked more tomb than temple. He pushed open the warped doors and stepped into the quiet.
Dust swam in sunbeams. Shelves lined the walls, sagging with time-worn tomes. And there she sat—cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scrolls, ink-stained fingers gliding across parchment.
She didn't look up.
"You're early," she said.
Kael blinked. "You were expecting me?"
"No," she said, dipping her quill again. "But you fit the pattern."
Now she looked up—and her eyes were what struck him first.
Steel blue. Calm. Ancient in their youth. The kind of eyes that had read too much, seen too far, and still held something back. Her hair was midnight brown, straight and sharp, tucked into a ribbon that let two strands frame her angular face. Her expression was neutral, but Kael saw it—the faint edge of condescension, like she was constantly calculating the limits of everyone else's understanding.
Her outfit was not one made for show, but every detail felt intentional. She wore a long slate-blue coat, buttoned at the chest but flared at the bottom like a scholar's robe. Beneath it, black trousers tucked into calf-high boots, worn but polished. A belt crossed her waist diagonally, holding pouches full of ink tubes, tiny vials, and neatly rolled maps. A thin chain circled her neck, vanishing into her collar. Everything about her said: I know where I am. Do you?
"You're not from here," she said, watching him.
"Neither are you," Kael replied.
A small, rare smirk touched her lips. "Correct."
She rose to her feet in a single, elegant motion, brushing a smudge of ink from her palm. "Name's Aerin. I study logic, language, and systems of belief. This town has the remnants of all three."
"Kael."
"Of course it is," she said, as if that confirmed something.
She walked past him, brushing her fingertips along the spine of an old book without looking. "Be careful what you disturb in Varan, Kael. Some silences weren't made to be broken."
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but she was already vanishing into the shadows between the shelves.
—
Later, Kael returned to the tavern.
The fire still smoldered low in the hearth. The same woman from last night ladled porridge into bowls. She glanced up, gave him a nod, and slid one across the counter.
"Sleep alright?" she asked.
"Didn't," Kael replied.
He sat in a corner seat by the window, back to the wall, eyes watching the door. Old habits didn't fade easily. As he ate, he caught snippets of conversation—weather, harvest, a boy who got bit by a goat.
None of it mattered.
Until the old man from yesterday sat down across from him, uninvited, a mug of something steaming in his hand.
"You're not from here," the man said plainly.
"No," Kael replied, just as plainly.
"Not much of a liar either."
Kael looked up. The man's eyes weren't unkind. Just sharp. Worn. Like they'd seen too much sun and not enough peace.
"I was a soldier once," the man went on. "Long time ago. You move like one. Eat like one too. Watchful. Careful. Like the war's still going."
Kael didn't answer.
The man sipped. "This place—Varan—it's quiet. Not soft. Just... tired of bleeding. Folk here've had enough of blades and names that make widows. So I'll say this once: if you brought a storm, leave it outside."
Kael set his spoon down. "I didn't come here to bring anything."
"You're carrying something."
Kael's jaw flexed. "A promise."
The old man studied him for a long breath. Then he leaned back, nodding slowly.
"Just don't let it drown you, son. Promises have weight. And I see yours dragging at your shoulders like it's made of iron."
Kael didn't respond. But in that silence, something passed between them. Not trust. Not yet. But understanding.
The old man stood. "Name's Calden. I keep the fields east of the stream. If trouble comes... I'll know who to blame."
Kael gave a faint nod. "Kael."
Calden walked off without another word.
—
The rest of the day passed in slow rhythm. Kael wandered the town, watched the girl at the forge shape iron like it was dough, helped a child fetch a ball from the stream. Every small act felt strangely foreign. Every smile directed his way, like a relic from a time he no longer belonged to.
And still, the quiet hung in the air.
Until just before sundown.
Three riders came from the northern path. Dust on their coats. Rust on their boots. One with a lazy scar down his cheek. One with a wide-brimmed hat too clean for travel. One chewing something that crunched louder than it should.
They didn't say much as they entered. Just tethered their horses, glanced around, and walked into town like they owned it.
Kael saw them before they saw him.
The first one to spot him was the tall one—Jes.
He stopped mid-step. Tapped the shoulder of the man beside him—Roy. And Hen, with his broken nose and dead eyes, was already reaching beneath his coat.
Kael didn't move.
The tavern door swung open behind him, casting long shadows across the floor.
Jes grinned, slow and mean. "Well now. Ain't this a surprise."
Kael stood.
He didn't draw.
Not yet.
But the silence in Varan broke—clean and sharp—as three bounty hunters step closer.