"Some scars are not carved into flesh… but into the silence between heartbeats."
The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the streets of Delora seemed smaller tonight—compressed by shadows that crept further than they should.
Kaizlan moved along the rooftops, his steps light, his breath measured. Every so often, he would pause, not because of danger, but because the echo of that boy's face wouldn't leave his mind.
The same hair.
The same eyes.
The same mark.
That mark… burned like a memory he never asked for.
He reached the outskirts and stopped by a crumbling stone wall. From here, the lights of the boy's house were distant enough to be faint glimmers in the dark.
He leaned his back against the wall and let the silence press against him.
This was dangerous.
Not the mission—no.
Dangerous because for the first time in years, he felt something he couldn't name.
He remembered his instructor's words, repeated over and over in that cold stone chamber of the sect:
"Names are chains. Faces are traps. Remember—what you see is nothing. What you do is everything."
And yet, here he was… caught in a trap he didn't understand.
A soft rustle broke the stillness.
Kaizlan's dagger was in his hand before his thoughts could catch up. He crouched low, scanning the dark.
From the edge of the trees, a figure emerged—tall, wrapped in a long coat, the glint of steel at his side. His steps were unhurried, deliberate.
The stranger stopped a few paces away, head tilted slightly. "You're far from the center of Delora, traveler." His voice was calm, but heavy with the kind of awareness that didn't belong to a common man.
Kaizlan didn't answer.
The man's gaze drifted to Kaizlan's neck… and lingered for just a moment too long. "Interesting mark you have there."
Kaizlan's grip on the dagger tightened, his voice low. "You should walk away."
The man smiled—not in amusement, but as though he'd just confirmed something. "We'll meet again. Soon."
Without another word, he vanished into the treeline, his presence swallowed by the night.
Kaizlan stayed still for a long moment. That look the man gave him—it was the same kind of recognition he felt when he saw the boy.
Too many threads were pulling at once.
And when too many threads pull at the same time… something tears.
He turned toward the house again, the faint light still visible in the distance. His orders were clear.
But for now…
He would wait.
Not out of mercy.
Not out of weakness.
Because patience was its own blade—and Kaizlan knew how to make it sharp.