CHAPTER 11 – THE WEIGHT OF QUIET DAYS
Morning in Greyhollow always arrived without announcement.
No bells.
No trumpets.
No sun rising in grand display as if demanding to be witnessed.
Light simply slipped through the thin mist clinging to the village's edge, touching old wooden roofs, fences warped by age, and damp earth trampled by hundreds of footsteps never recorded by history.
Zio opened his eyes before the first sound appeared.
The same wooden ceiling greeted him. Small cracks along the support beams. Faint soot stains in the corners, remnants of winters long past. Nothing had changed.
Yet his body knew something his eyes did not.
He was no longer the same person he had been a few nights ago.
He did not rise immediately. He lay still, listening to his breathing.
Before, mornings began with readiness. Muscles tight. Thoughts already moving ahead of the day. Training. Hunting. Repairs. Helping where help was needed.
Now there was distance.
Not weakness.
Not fear.
Something inside him was waiting.
Zio closed his eyes again, not to sleep, but to listen.
And there, he felt it.
Two currents.
They did not collide. They did not merge. They simply existed.
One followed habit, steady and disciplined, bound to the body. The other was deeper, heavier, pressing against the space around it without moving at all.
Zyon had not appeared last night.
Strangely, that absence unsettled Zio more than the man's presence ever had.
He finally rose.
Trod was already outside when Zio opened the door.
As usual.
The dwarf sat on a low wooden bench, back slightly hunched, hands busy repairing a broken hunting trap. His gray hair was tied carelessly. His beard had lost the neatness it once had. A short cough escaped his chest, quickly masked by an irritated grunt.
"You're up late," Trod said without turning.
Zio glanced at the pale sky. "No. Earlier than usual."
Trod snorted. "Then you're thinking too much."
Zio did not deny it.
He filled the basin with water. His movements were neat and efficient. No wasted motion. No splashing.
Trod watched him from the corner of his eye.
"Your steps have changed," the dwarf said at last.
Zio paused. "Bad?"
"Quieter," Trod replied. "That rarely means anything good for someone your age."
Zio smiled faintly. "I'm not a child anymore."
Trod finally turned. His gaze was sharp, far too sharp for someone who claimed to be tired.
"That's exactly the problem."
There was no lecture.
Trod stood, set the trap aside, and picked up a small axe.
"North field," he said. "Fence collapsed again."
Zio nodded.
The walk was short, but long enough for silence to settle between them.
Greyhollow was half awake. A few villagers stepped outside, offering brief greetings. No one found it strange to see Zio walking beside Trod. To them, it was ordinary. The thin human boy and the stubborn old dwarf.
And that ordinariness felt safe.
The fence had collapsed completely. Rotten beams. Mud softened by last night's rain.
Zio got to work immediately. Lifting. Holding. Hammering.
Before, he would have used strength without thought. Now, he regulated his breathing, letting his body move without forcing itself.
He knew Trod was watching.
"You're holding back," Trod said.
Zio stopped. "I don't want to break something."
Trod raised an eyebrow. "The fence?"
"My body."
That answer held Trod silent longer than usual.
"Who taught you to think like that?" he asked.
Zio hesitated for a breath. "Experience."
It was not enough. But Trod did not press.
They finished before the sun climbed high.
That was when Trod's cough returned, heavier this time. Zio stepped closer on instinct.
"I'm fine," Trod grumbled, though his breathing said otherwise.
Zio said nothing. He simply stayed.
And for the first time, he noticed what he had long ignored.
Trod was aging.
Not like stone worn smooth by time, but like old iron, solid on the surface while cracks spread within.
"You're looking at me like I'll die tomorrow," Trod said sharply.
Zio shook his head. "No."
"Good," Trod replied. "Because I'm still alive today."
He turned back toward the village.
Midday passed as it always did.
Plain food. Warm soup. Hard bread. No complaints.
Zio sat near the house, sharpening his dagger. Not because it needed it. Because it was familiar.
Children ran past. A mother scolded her child near the river. An old man slept on a bench with his hat pulled low.
It all felt real.
And in the middle of that simplicity, something weighed on Zio.
Zyon had once said, You can keep living like this.
Back then, it sounded like permission.
Now, it felt like a question.
Trod stepped outside, holding two wooden cups of boiled leaf water.
"Drink."
Zio accepted it.
"You'll leave someday," Trod said suddenly.
Zio stiffened but did not look at him. "Why do you think that?"
"Because everyone who survives too long in a place like this eventually leaves," Trod said. "Or dies."
"I haven't decided."
Trod snorted. "You're always deciding. Even when you pretend you aren't."
Silence settled.
"You met someone," Trod continued.
It was not a question.
"Yes," Zio said.
"Dangerous?"
"Not immediately."
"The worst ones never are."
Zio turned. "You know more than you say."
Trod stared ahead. "I know enough to know when to stop asking."
He stood.
"Afternoon training. As usual."
The training ground felt different.
Not because the land had changed, but because Zio had.
He moved without pushing. Attacked without forcing. His dagger was no longer an extension of muscle, but of intent.
Trod watched him carefully.
"There's a part of you you're hiding," the dwarf said.
"I'm protecting it."
"From who?"
Zio remained silent.
Trod stepped closer, axe planted in the dirt. "From yourself?"
Still no answer.
"I don't know what you're carrying," Trod said, softer now. "But remember this."
He struck Zio's chest once, controlled but firm.
"A body that's too cautious dies faster than one that knows when to move."
Zio nodded. "I'll remember."
Trod studied him for a long moment. "I hope so."
Night settled gently over Greyhollow.
Zio lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
There were no lessons about mana today. No warnings about fractured cores. No shadows of past or future.
Only old wood. The sound of a dwarf breathing in the next room. A world turning as it always had.
Yet before sleep claimed him, one thought pressed heavily on his chest.
Days like this would not last forever.
And somehow, that truth felt more frightening than all of Zyon's warnings.
Outside, the night wind moved softly.
And for the first time since meeting Zyon, Zio wished, if only for a moment, that the world would stop asking things of him.
End of Chapter 11