Dawn over Saltmire was a symphony of greys: the grey stone of the keep, the grey mist off the sea, the grey light before the sun breached the horizon. In the main courtyard, it was a symphony of grim preparation. Fifty hand-picked soldiers of the Saltmire Guard stood in ordered ranks, checking gear, securing packs to patient horses. The mood was somber, confused. They were being sent to fight a thing no one could describe.
Kaelen moved among them, a pillar of calm authority, checking a strap here, murmuring an instruction there. His face was the mask of the Captain, but his mind was a riot. His eyes kept straying to a small, arched doorway that led to the inner gardens.
He had told her the night before, in the quiet of her room. She had been holding the fused medallion, tracing the golden veins with her thumb.
"Eastwatch," he'd said, the word final as a cell door closing. "The Quietude is spreading there. They're sending me to contain it."
Her head had snapped up, the calm she'd earned in the garden shattering. "For how long?"
"As long as it takes. Or until they realize I can't fight it with a sword." He'd taken a step closer, the formality between them crumbling in the face of this new separation. "You must continue your lessons with Torvin and Maren. You must learn control, fast. The world is getting quieter, Lyssa, and I won't be here to…"
To protect you. He hadn't said it.
"I'm not a child to be protected," she'd said, her voice trembling but firm. She'd held up the medallion. "I'm learning to speak. Maybe… maybe I can help."
"No." The word was sharp, instinctive. "Not yet. You are Saltmire's secret. Our last, best argument against the silence. You reveal yourself only when there is no other choice, or when you are so strong that nothing can silence you." He'd reached out then, not as a captain, but as Kaelen, and cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm, humming with the faint, living energy he now knew was her birthright. "Keep learning. Keep listening. And stay safe."
Now, in the cold courtyard, the moment of parting had arrived. He finished his inspection and turned towards the garden arch. He didn't have to wait long.
She emerged, not in the borrowed dress, but in sturdy trousers and a tunic, her hair braided back—the ghost of the quarry girl, but with eyes that saw the world's hidden music. She carried a small cloth-wrapped bundle.
She walked up to him, ignoring the curious glances of the soldiers. The Captain and his guest.
"Here," she said, thrusting the bundle into his hands. It was heavy, warm. "It's not a weapon. It's… a reminder."
He unwrapped a corner. It was the medallion, now threaded onto a simple leather cord. The steel was no longer just warm; it seemed to hold a gentle, internal glow, and the golden thyme-veins pulsed softly with a light that had nothing to do with the dawn.
"It remembers harmony," she said, her voice low. "If the silence presses in… hold it. It's a small, loud truth."
A lump formed in Kaelen's throat. She was giving him a piece of her newfound peace to carry into the heart of the quiet. It was the most profound gift he had ever received.
He slipped the cord over his head, tucking the medallion beneath his tunic and armor. It rested against his chest, a tiny sun over his heart. "Thank you."
Words failed him. There was too much to say and no time to say it. The safety of a kingdom, the secret of a Magus Primordial, the undefined, terrifying thing growing between them—it all hung in the misty air.
He did the only thing he could. He clasped her shoulder, the grip firm and lasting. "Listen to Maren. Don't let Torvin put you to work at the bellows. And remember the song."
She placed her hand over his, her touch sending a jolt through him that was entirely mortal and human. "Come back loud, Kaelen."
With a final, searing look, he turned, mounted his horse, and raised a hand. The company moved out, the clatter of hooves and armor echoing through the city gates, heading east towards the creeping stillness.
Lyssa stood in the archway until the last rider vanished into the fog. The noise of the departing company faded, replaced by the waking sounds of Saltmire. But now, she heard the anxiety in those sounds—the worried tempo of a blacksmith's hammer, the tense whisper of the market crowd. Fear had a frequency all its own.
She turned and walked not back to her room, but towards the herb garden. Maren would be there, grumbling at the dawn. Torvin would soon fire his forge. Her teachers were waiting. The Captain was gone to fight the outer darkness.
Her war was here. To learn the language of the world, so she'd have the right words to shout when the silence finally came for her home.
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High in the Sentinel's Spire, Arden Valen felt the departure like a shift in the wind. A concentration of determined, mortal will—Kaelen's signature—moving eastward, towards a gathering stain of nothingness. The Captain was doing his duty, charging at the shadow.
A waste of good steel, but a necessary distraction.
Arden's own preparations were complete. He carried no pack, only Dawnbringer across his back and a few days' worth of dense waybread. He was not going to a garrison. He was going hunting in places where time and sound went to die.
He took one last look at the spire—the empty pedestal, the familiar view, the decade of solitude etched into the stone. It had been a refuge. Now it felt like a cage.
Without ceremony, he descended the northern stair for the last time and stepped onto the mountain path. He did not look towards Saltmire, or towards the east where Kaelen marched.
He turned south-west, towards the deep, tangled forests that climbed the lower slopes of the Serpent's Spine, towards the misty, maligned region known as the Whisperfen. A place of sinkholes and still water, where travelers spoke of losing their voices for days.
The Warden vanished into the shadows of the pines, a solitary figure moving against the current of the world, seeking the source of the river of silence. The guardian had left his post. The hunter was on the trail.