The road out of Greymire did not welcome travelers.
It never had.
Mud clung to Ryn's boots long after the marshland thinned into firmer ground, as if the village itself were reluctant to let him go. The pack on his back was light by any sensible measure—bread, dried meat, a waterskin, spare cloth—but by midday it felt heavier with every step. Cold seeped through his boots and into his bones, the kind that did not bite sharply but settled in to stay.
He welcomed it.
Pain was simple. It asked nothing of him except endurance.
By the time the crooked willow vanished behind the reeds, Ryn did not look back. Not once. He focused instead on the rhythm of walking, on breath and step, on keeping his hand away from the knife at his hip. Kael's knife. Plain, worn smooth by years of use, its hilt pressing reassuringly against his side with every movement.
The world beyond the marsh was louder.
Not in sound alone, but in presence.
The road widened as it curved south, packed earth beaten flat by carts and boots. He passed broken wagon wheels abandoned in the ditch, scraps of cloth snagged on thorn bushes, old boot prints hardened into the dirt. Signs of movement. Of people passing through quickly, not lingering long enough to care.
By late afternoon, he saw smoke on the horizon.
Not the low, creeping smoke of Greymire fires, but tall plumes rising confidently into the sky. Industry. Hearths. Forges.
Valenport.
Ryn slowed without meaning to.
The city rose from the plain like a scar that had healed wrong—stone walls layered unevenly, towers added where older ones had collapsed, banners hanging stiff in the wind. No single color dominated. Reds faded into browns. Blues dulled by dust. The city had grown by necessity, not design.
As he approached the outer road, the signs of unrest became harder to ignore.
A wooden notice board stood crooked beside the path, its surface gouged by knives and half-burned parchment nailed over older postings. One notice hung torn, its ink smeared by rain, bearing the crude sketch of a man's face—too generic to be useful. Someone had scrawled beneath it in charcoal:
TRAITORS WALK AMONG US.
Further on, Ryn passed a cluster of travelers huddled close together, their voices low and tense. When he drew near, the conversation died abruptly. A woman pulled her cloak tighter. A man shifted his stance, hand resting near his belt.
No one met his eyes.
At the gate, the guards were alert in a way that went beyond routine. Spears angled outward. Hands close to hilts. Their tabards bore the city's sigil—a split tower over crossed keys—but the fabric was worn thin, patched too many times.
One guard raised a hand as Ryn approached.
"Name?" the man asked.
"Ryn," he replied.
"Business in Valenport?"
"Passing through."
The guard studied him, eyes lingering not on the knife, but on Ryn's face. As if searching for something that refused to present itself.
"You travel alone," the guard said.
"Yes."
A pause.
The man glanced at his companion, who gave a subtle shake of the head. No obvious threat. No obvious innocence either.
"Move along," the guard said finally. "And keep your head down."
Inside the walls, the city felt… constrained.
Streets twisted sharply, built atop older foundations that had long since surrendered to time. Stone buildings leaned close together, upper floors jutting outward like conspirators whispering secrets overhead. The smell was a layered thing—coal smoke, damp stone, sweat, old food, and something metallic beneath it all.
Fear, Ryn thought. Or the memory of it.
People moved with purpose, but not ease. Conversations happened in fragments, cut short by passing guards or sudden silences. More than once, Ryn caught sight of city watch standing in pairs at intersections, their gazes sweeping crowds with restless intensity.
At a narrow alley near the inner wall, he noticed something odd.
A shrine.
Small. Unassuming. A simple stone basin set into the wall, candles burned low around a weathered symbol of the Church—not the grand sigil displayed in cathedrals, but the simpler mark used by rural clergy. Someone had left fresh bread beside it.
And someone else had scratched a crude symbol into the stone nearby.
A broken sun.
Ryn moved on.
He found lodging near dusk, a narrow inn wedged between a cooper's shop and a boarded-up tailor. The sign above the door read The Bent Nail, its paint flaking.
Inside, warmth pressed against him like a wave. Firelight flickered across scarred tables and low ceilings blackened by years of smoke. The inn was not full, but those present kept to themselves. No laughter. No songs.
Ryn paid for a bed and stew with two copper coins and did not ask questions.
The stew was thin but hot. He ate slowly, savoring the heat more than the taste. Around him, murmurs drifted like smoke.
"…another one found near the docks…"
"…they say he was writing names…"
"…Church says it's not their doing…"
Ryn listened without appearing to.
Later, as night deepened and the inn quieted further, a man took the seat across from him without asking.
He wore the simple gray of a traveling priest, his cloak patched and clean. His face was younger than Ryn had expected, with tired eyes and a mouth set in a line that suggested both patience and disappointment.
"You walk like someone who expects trouble," the man said softly.
Ryn did not reach for his knife. "I walk like someone who's had it before."
The priest inclined his head slightly. "Brother Calen."
"Ryn."
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but cautious.
"You came from the marsh," Calen said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"And you arrived on a night when Valenport is hunting ghosts."
Ryn's gaze lifted. "Ghosts?"
Calen sighed. "That's what people call things they don't understand. Or don't want to name."
Ryn waited.
"Someone is killing scribes," Calen continued quietly. "Not the Church's. Not the crown's. Independent men. Record keepers. Archivists. People who remember things better left forgotten."
A chill ran through Ryn that had nothing to do with the cold.
"And the city thinks…" Ryn prompted.
"They think it's a heretic. Or a cult. Or a foreign agent." Calen's lips tightened. "They think if they find the right scapegoat, the fear will end."
"And will it?"
"No."
Ryn thought of the parchment burning beneath the willow. Of the title that had refused to turn to ash.
The Scribe of Rust.
Calen studied him more closely now. "You should leave Valenport quickly," he said. "Quiet men draw attention in loud times."
Ryn nodded. "I wasn't planning to stay."
"Good."
Calen rose, then hesitated. "If someone asks you questions… choose your answers carefully."
Ryn watched him go.
That night, sleep came fitfully. Dreams of smoke and iron pressed in, tangled with the memory of Kael's voice and the slow, deliberate way the parchment had burned.
At dawn, Ryn woke to shouting in the street.
He rose quietly, pack already half-fastened by habit. Outside, a small crowd had gathered near the intersection. City watch pushed people back as two bodies were carried past on wooden boards, shrouded in stained cloth.
One cloth slipped.
Ryn saw ink-stained fingers.
He turned away before anyone noticed him watching.
By midmorning, he was back on the road, Valenport shrinking behind him.
The city did not shout as he left.
It watched.
And somewhere within its walls, someone was already adjusting their plans.
Because the quiet boy from the marsh had passed through.
And silence, once noticed, is never forgotten.