"If I wanted to care, I'd have a different job."
Another day in the city of Anselm.
Did the sun rise? Maybe. But is rising enough… or just another way to pretend the darkness is over?
Who am I?
An elf. Y years old. Working more than I should.
Why?
Divine punishment. Or at least, that's what I call it.
Dealing daily with barbarians, drunkards, and ragged fools.
It was either that… or working at a tavern called The Serpent's Eye.
And between being insulted by a chain-smoking gorgon or a clueless dwarf… I chose the guild counter.
But… did I really choose? Or was I chosen… by bureaucracy?
Here, everything is a quest. Everything is a reward. Everything is failure dressed up as effort.
They arrive. Sweaty, filthy, wounded. With eyes that beg for help… or just another excuse to keep existing.
And me?
I stamp. I record. I observe.
But… is observing the same as understanding?
Today, like yesterday, like tomorrow… they'll come.
And among them… him.
Kael.
Why does he keep coming back?
Persistence… or stupidity?
And why… do I still remember his name?
Maybe because he talks to a sword.
Maybe because the sword talks back.
Maybe because… in the middle of chaos… he still tries.
But is trying… enough?
Or just another way to pretend you're not lost?
The guild bell rings. Someone enters.
Another day. Another quest.
Another unanswered question.
And me?
I adjust my crooked glasses.
And wait.
He walks in.
Kael.
The repeat offender. The one from the fire. The one from the windmill. The one from the failure.
But… is failure a talent? Or just a poorly paid calling?
The frayed cloak on his shoulders. The look of someone who's already lost before even trying.
And the sword. Tharon. The talking blade. The metallic scream. The companion of sarcasm and despair.
They walk to the counter like they're carrying the weight of the world… or just the weight of their own choices.
Kael tosses the scroll onto the wood like he's tossing his dignity.
— Defense of Karthen village. Goblins. Four.
Four goblins… or four villages?
I ask without looking up. The registry book is more reliable than an adventurer's memory.
He hesitates. His eye twitches. His patience evaporates.
— Four goblins. One village. It's written right there.
It's written… but is it done?
The sword vibrates. Offended. As if words were blades.
— He just said yes, you literate mole!
Literate mole… interesting. But who's the real fool? The sword that talks… or the man who talks to the sword?
I adjust my crooked glasses. A gesture. A shield. A signature.
— And you are… the sword?
— The sword that'll slit your throat if you keep being stupid!
The threat. The drama. A tragedy in three acts.
She growls. He sighs. I stamp.
— Just… give us the damn "mission complete" stamp.
A physical stamp… or an existential one?
The sword writhes. Wants to cut. Wants to punish. Wants to exist.
I shrug. The magical seal releases a puff of blue smoke. A gesture. A ritual.
— Complete. But is any mission ever truly complete?
The sword threatens to rip my soul out through my ear.
Kael asks for calm. The sword has no lungs. I have no patience.
— Two silver coins for four goblins… and the satisfaction?
He takes the coins. Tired. Defeated. Persistent.
— Money's money. What's next?
Next?
Seven spit-herbs.
But… have you ever wondered why they're called that?
The sword trembles. He sighs. I observe.
They leave. Push the door. Carry the chaos with them.
And me?
I stay.
With the stamped scroll. With the unanswered question. And with the strange feeling that… maybe… he'll come back.
But coming back… is it a choice?
Or just fate disguised as stubbornness?
The market buzzed. Shouts, coins, promises. The smell of bread, dust, and hopelessness.
I don't like leaving the guild. But… sometimes, even bureaucracy needs to breathe.
I passed through stalls, dodging vendors and questions I didn't want to answer.
And then… I saw him.
Kael.
Talking to the orc of tomorrow's bread.
The orc gestured like a prophet. Kael listened like a confused disciple.
But… what is tomorrow's bread, really?
A promise? A lie? A metaphor?
He held the bread like someone holding an answer. But… did he even know what the question was?
I didn't approach. I didn't speak. I just watched.
And why… did I watch?
Curiosity? Boredom? Or… something I don't want to name?
I moved on. The scent of onions and cheap philosophy faded behind me.
The Serpent's Eye awaited.
The tavern. The den. The refuge of those who've stopped pretending to hope.
Thalga was there. As always. Smoking a cigar that looked like it had survived a war.
— Well, well… the bureaucrat crawled out of her hole, she growled, cigar still clenched between her teeth.
— And you… still not dead? I replied, humorless.
— I die a little every day. But the cigar keeps me alive, she coughed, as if confirming the theory.
I sat at the counter. She poured something that resembled liquid. I didn't ask its name. Or its purpose.
— So… she said, blowing smoke, that scrawny one came back?
Silence.
Kael.
Why did she ask?
— He always comes back, I answered, flat.
— And you always notice, she shot back, with that crooked smile of someone who knows too much.
— Noticing is part of the job, I lied.
— And thinking about him outside the job… is that part too? she coughed, laughing.
I didn't answer. Because answering would mean admitting. And admitting… isn't my style.
She wiped a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass itself.
— Careful, elf. This city swallows those who feel too much, she said, without looking.
— And those who don't feel… have they already been swallowed? I asked, unintentionally.
She didn't reply. Just coughed. And the silence weighed more than any answer.
I finished the drink. Paid with coins—and thoughts I didn't want to keep.
I left the tavern. The sky was purple. The kind of color that promises nothing.
And me?
I went back to the guild.
Because… where else could I be?
And if… noticing someone is the first mistake?
Or the first miracle?
A few days passed.
Or… maybe not that many.
Time is strange in Anselm. It drips like bad wine—slow, sticky, and tasting of regret.
Kael didn't show up.
And I… still think about him.
Why?
It's not like he's special. It's not like he's done anything memorable. He just… exists. And for some reason, that bothers me.
Maybe it's the way he listens. Like every word is a clue. Like the world can still be deciphered.
Idiot.
Today, he came back.
Entered the guild like someone carrying the weight of a failed mission— and a few tearful onions.
Literally.
The smell arrived before he did. Onion, sweat, and defeat.
— Mission complete… sort of, he said, trying to smile.
I didn't reply. Just stared.
He looked different. Not physically. But… there was something in his eyes. Something that shouldn't be there.
Hope?
No. Can't be.
He handed in the report. Stammered. Tried to make a joke. No one laughed.
I should've laughed. Or mocked. Or ignored.
But… I stayed silent.
And that, to me, is the worst sign.
Silence is when the thoughts scream.
He left. And I stayed.
With the smell of onions. And with questions I don't want to ask.
Why do I still think about him?
Why do I still notice?
Why… when he speaks, does the world make sense for a second?
And why… when he's silent, does something feel missing?
Maybe it's just the onions.
Or maybe… it's the beginning of something I don't want to name.
And if it is?
And if… feeling is inevitable?
No. Not now.
Not with him.
Not with me.
But… what if?
The guild door creaked.
Kael walked in.
The Sunbeam Group followed, striking poses as usual. Leon puffed up, Sylphie spinning, Elren singing something that didn't even rhyme.
Kael… just walked past.
No glances. No words.
Tharon clinked softly. Almost restrained.
They reached the counter.
I was there.
— Mission? I asked, eyes still on the ledger.
Leon stepped forward, showroom smile in place.
— Successfully completed! he declared, as if expecting applause.
— Success… or just survival? I murmured, flipping the page.
Sylphie waved. Elren twirled his lute. Kael stayed quiet.
— Report? I held out my hand.
Kael handed it over. Crumpled paper. Rushed handwriting.
— It's all there, he said, voice low.
I glanced at him. Quickly.
Something different.
Or maybe not.
I skimmed the report. Stamped it.
— Coins are on the counter, I said, flatly.
Leon thanked me. Sylphie smiled. Elren sang. Kael lingered for just one second longer.
Then turned his back.
And left.
I returned to the ledger.
But for some reason… I didn't read the next line.
I just sat there.
Thinking.
Why?
Doesn't matter.
I moved on.
The report about the screaming frog was still on the desk.
Stamped. Resolved. But not forgotten.
That creature screamed like it had been trained for opera. And the tearful onions? A show of their own. The guild should've charged admission.
I closed the ledger. Grabbed my coat. Headed to the tavern.
The Serpent's Eye was packed. Too many people for too little hope.
Thalga was there, as always. Smoking something that looked illegal in three and a half kingdoms.
— You again, she said, without looking.
— I never left, I replied, sitting at the counter.
She poured a liquid that seemed extracted from a tired stone.
— Bad mission? she asked, blowing smoke.
— Screaming frog. Crying onions. A group that shines too much, I summarized.
— Ah… the usual days, she coughed.
I drank. It burned.
— The crying onion… does it really cry? Or just remind us that we should? I asked, unintentionally.
Thalga laughed. A dry, cracked sound.
— If you're philosophizing about vegetables, you're worse off than you look.
— Yeah, I replied.
Silence.
The good kind.
The rare kind.
She wiped a glass with a rag that looked like it had fought in a war.
— Heading back to the guild? she asked.
— Eventually, I said.
— And until then?
— Until then… I pretend the world makes sense.
She poured more.
And didn't ask anything else.
Better that way.
Kael asked for a special mission.
Of course he did.
Most do. Few understand.
I grabbed the scroll. Pointed to the side door.
— Maybe there. Or maybe not, I said, emotionless.
Tharon snorted. Kael followed.
We climbed the stairs. Wood creaking like it resented existence.
Me in front. Him behind. No words.
The guildmaster's office door looked like it had survived an armed existential crisis.
I pushed it slowly.
— Maybe this is the guildmaster's office… or the mouth of a well no one returns from, I murmured, stepping in.
Kurot was there. As always. Living stone with horns and sentences that sounded like decrees.
The conversation was what it always is: Statements, denials, rock philosophy.
Kael tried to keep up. Tharon nearly exploded with sarcasm.
I just observed.
When the letter floated to the desk, I knew it was time.
— I think… or maybe not… that I can leave you two alone now, I said, adjusting my glasses.
Kurot made a gesture. I left.
Closed the door slowly.
Went back down the stairs. Returned to the counter.
Minutes later, Kael passed by.
Said nothing.
Didn't look.
He left.
I turned the page of the ledger.
Quick thought.
He didn't speak to me.
And I didn't expect him to.
The guild bell rang at the wrong hour. A bard stumbled in, face marked by despair, voice trembling, eyes wide like someone who'd seen a god fall.
— Kidnapping! he cried, nearly tripping over his own fear. — A warrior… talking sword… they took him!
I didn't move. Not out of coldness, but out of duty. The desk between us was more than wood—it was protocol, a shield, everything that kept me from feeling.
— Kidnapping reports go to the city guard, I said, eyes still down.
— They won't make it in time! he pleaded, voice cracking. — It was him… the onion guy… the frog idiot… Kael!
The name hit like a punch to the gut. But I didn't react. He trembled. I flipped pages.
— Redirect to the guard, I repeated, firm—like firmness could protect me.
The bard hesitated. Looked at the door, at me, at the floor. Muttered something about death, time, fate—and ran out. The door slammed. The hall sank into a silence heavier than air itself.
I turned the page. But didn't read.
My breath caught. Chest tightened. A strange heat rose in my throat and died there, swallowed like everything I never say. His name echoed—not as a memory, but as a wound.
Kael.
Idiot. Reckless. Inconvenient. But alive. He always came back. Always with that crooked smile and a story worse than the last. Always with that habit of existing too much.
And what if this time… he didn't come back?
No. Not my problem. Not my friend. Not anything.
But the name stayed. Like a dissonant note that won't resolve. Like a question with no answer. Like an absence that shouldn't hurt—but does.
I closed the ledger. Tried to open another. Couldn't.
The hall remained silent. And for the first time, I wished someone would walk in. Anyone. Except him.
Because if Kael walked in now… I wouldn't know what to do with what's left of me.
I closed the book. Extinguished the candle. Protocol said to leave one lit until the last record of the day. But there was no record. Only absence.
And absence can't be filed.
I stood. Straightened the chair. Looked at the door for one second longer than I should have.
And left.
Without saying anything. Without pretending I hadn't thought.
But with his name still caught between the teeth of memory.
Kael.