Albin left, leaving the silence behind him. His steps were heavy. He could hear his own breath, and Shadow walked by his side quietly.
It felt as if his feet left deep marks in the dust and stone on the way back. Chest tight, eyes narrow, only looking forward.
He didn't remember how long he walked or the way back into Mistelbrunn. Didn't notice Rondris nodding at him as he passed the gate. He didn't notice life going on.
He didn't notice how he had made the decision to walk where he stood now.
Dust, old wood, and the kind of stillness that did not belong to silence, but to restraint. The building did not wait for him. It endured him.
He noticed it when he stepped inside. The hinges protested softly, the loose plank shifted under its weight, and the sound echoed once before dissolving into the ceiling.
Albin hesitated.
Nothing had changed.
He closed the door behind him and rested his palm against the wood. The surface was rough, scratched by years of use, warm where the sun had touched it earlier. He breathed in slowly, then let it out again. His shoulders lowered a fraction.
The old man sat at the same table as before, hunched slightly forward, book open, finger tracing a line of text with practiced patience. His beard was still unkempt, gray threaded with white. His hair was pulled back loosely.
He did not look up right away.
Albin took a step forward. Then another.
His footsteps echoed faintly across the stone floor, each one softer than the last as he slowed unconsciously, tasting the wet, cold air. Only when he was halfway across the room did the old man lift his head.
"You're back," he said.
Albin nodded. "Once more."
The old man studied him for a brief second. His eyes moved over Albin's posture, the way he stood, the steadiness of his breathing. Then he hummed quietly and returned his attention back to his book.
"I wondered," he said, turning a page, "whether you would be."
Albin walked past him toward the shelves, stopping near the section marked for books for Summoners. The dust there was thinner now. Someone had disturbed it recently. During the last days, he had read a lot of books. The library mostly consisted local stories. "On Local Solutions" or "The history of Pragmatism in Thuria." Apparently, it was a value in this small kingdom, that belonged to an empire he hasn't learned about yet.
He took another one out.
He rested his palm against the shelf. It felt dry and solid.
"I didn't find what I was looking for last time," Albin said.
"No," the old man replied calmly. "You didn't."
Albin frowned. "You sound very sure."
"You wouldn't have come back if you had. You see?"
Albin let out a low breath through his nose. He leaned his shoulder against the shelf, folding his arms loosely across his chest. His fingers no longer stung when he flexed them. If anything, the had become rough from this week's work.
"I need to ask you something," Albin finally said.
The man did not look up. "Oh no, you don't."
Albin blinked. "I-"
"You want to," the old man corrected. "That's different, hm?"
Silence stretched between them, thin but unbroken. Outside, the wind brushed against the walls. Somewhere deeper in the building, wood creaked softly as it settled.
Albin shifted his weight. He didn't feel dismissed. If anything, he felt… slowed down.
"People don't normally say that."
"No, they don't. They normally want reassurance," the old man mumbled under his beard without looking up. "Or permission. Or absolution. You do not make the impression of someone who would be satisfied with either."
Albin looked down at the floor. The stone was worn smooth by countless feet. Grooves softened by time. None of those people had known him, and none would remember him.
"I fixed something," he said quietly.
The old man turned another page.
"I thought I did," Albin continued. "I was careful. I resolved the issue. I did what was asked of me. I got paid. I got a bed and food."
The man listened. He simply did not interrupt.
"Someone died anyway," Albin said quietly.
"That happens," was the reply his partner returned.
Albin laughed once, short and without smiling. "That's a terrible thing to say. I've heard the boy laugh in the Badger only a few-"
"Ahh, but it is an accurate thing to say. I am not here to make you feel better."
"That much is clear." Albin looked at the back of the book he picked. It was another one written in Old Thurish. He didn't understand a single word.
The man brushed his beard out of the book's pages, closed it partway, keeping a finger between the pages. An intense look at Albin. Not sharp, not judging, but with the quiet attention of someone used to listening to unfinished thoughts.
"You believe this happened because of you," he said after a moment.
Albin's fist clenched. Pressure built up in his chest.
"I don't know whether I should have been more careful – should not have taken this fucking – I believe… I believe that I was part of it."
He would see something broken and slow down. He would notice a weak spot and think about it longer than necessary. He would tell himself it wasn't his problem and still feel the itch to make it less wrong than it was. He had never been able to unsee things once he had noticed them.
Maybe he could limit it, then. Only help when asked. Only do exactly what people told him to do. No decisions.
The thought felt thinner the longer he held it.
He pictured the river again. The mud. The weight shifting under his feet. He had been asked to find a solution for the blockage. He had done exactly that. He had not gone looking for trouble. It had still found him.
Even obedience had consequences here.
Another idea followed, quieter, more desperate.
He could leave town for a while. Just a few days. Let things settle. Come back once people forgot his face. Once whatever balance he had disturbed had time to right itself.
His eyes drifted over the shelves without really seeing them. Titles blurred together. Histories. Local records. Practical solutions. Temporary measures.
Temporary.
He almost laughed.
Leaving and returning was still staying. It only delayed the moment where he would step in again. Where someone would ask. Where something would go wrong in a way that felt close enough to touch.
Restraint had never stopped him from acting. It had only delayed it.
He could be more careful. That was the oldest lie of them all. Careful had been what he thought he was when it happened. Careful had been the word he used to describe himself while everything quietly lined up to prove him wrong.
Careful meant nothing in a world that answered effort with consequence instead of intention.
His gaze dropped to the floor again. Smooth stone. Worn down by centuries of feet that had passed through here, each belonging to someone who had once thought they were different. More cautious. Smarter. Able to leave things untouched.
He had read enough to know how that usually ended.
Celine's face came to him then, uninvited. Not the way she smiled when things were easy, but the way her mouth tightened when she listened. When she waited for him to finish explaining something that did not quite hold together.
She would not argue with him. She never did. She would ask one question and let it sit between them.
How long do you think you can keep that up?
He exhaled slowly.
There it was. The thing underneath all of it. Not guilt. Not fear of blame. Fear of repetition.
Staying meant trusting himself to change in a way he had never managed before. It meant believing that next time, he would stop sooner. That next time, the cost would be smaller. That next time, he would be careful enough.
He had already tested that belief.
It had failed.
The weight in his chest shifted, no longer pressing inward, but outward instead. Not relief. Not yet. Just clarity, sharp and unpleasant.
If he stayed, he would act again. If he acted again, the world would answer again. Not out of malice. Not out of intent. Simply because that was how things worked here.
Half measures would not save him.
They would only ensure there was a next time.
Eventually Albin pushed himself off the shelf and took a step forward. "If I stay, it will happen again."
Something loosened in Albin's chest. The tight coil he had been carrying since the morning eased. Space.
An old, studied look fell onto Albin.
"That," he said slowly, "is a different sentence."
"I can't be here anymore," Albin said.
A chuckle escaped the gray beard. "No, you can't."
"Caldrin," Albin added, almost reluctantly.
"Yes," the old man agreed. "Caldrin."
Albin pointed at one of the books he had read. "What is it? Where is it?"
"Oh, you will love it there. Or hate it. I think it may depend on the answer to your search. A few days west."
"Summoners?"
"There are places for Summoners, yes. For most of the classes. Call them whatever makes you happy. Even for people like you."
"That's enough."
The old man reopened his book. "You'll leave today."
"Yes."
"Good."
Albin turned toward the door, then paused.
"If I come back," he said.
The older one did not look up. "You won't."
Albin considered that. That last sentence felt… grounding.
"I hope you are right," he said. Then, he left the library without another word.
Outside, Albin had to squeeze his eyes. The light felt different. Brighter, somehow.
"Finally, a decision," he heard Shadow's voice.
Albin did not head for the forge right away.
He stepped back into the street and stopped, as if he had forgotten something. The sound of the door closing behind him had already faded. The library stood as it always had. Stone. Wood. Stillness. Nothing in it suggested that anything had changed.
Nothing had.
People passed him without slowing. A man carrying a sack of grain nodded absentmindedly. A child ran past with something clutched to their chest, laughing as they disappeared around the corner. Somewhere nearby, someone argued about prices.
The world continued.
Albin stood there and waited for it to react.
It didn't.
No weight pressed down on him. No sense of finality settled in. There was no moment that felt like crossing a threshold. He was still standing in the same place, breathing the same air, wearing the same clothes he had put on that morning.
So, this was what it felt like.
He had expected more resistance. Or less. He wasn't sure which would have been worse.
Shadow lingered near his feet, tail flicking lazily. "That's it?" the familiar thought, amused. "No thunder? No sudden collapse of reality?"
Albin exhaled. "I didn't think there would be," he said quietly. Saying it out loud made it sound smaller than it had felt inside his chest.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The stone beneath him was uneven, worn down by countless steps. People had stood here before. Probably for reasons just as important to them as this was to him.
They had left too.
The idea did not comfort him as much as he would have liked.
Leaving meant movement. Movement meant contact. Contact meant influence. He had already learned that standing still was an illusion, but walking away did not feel neutral either. It felt like choosing which consequences he would be present for.
He glanced back once, just long enough to confirm that the library door remained closed. The old man had not followed him. Of course, he hadn't.
This part was his.
Albin turned and started walking again, slower this time. Each step felt deliberate in a way his earlier ones hadn't. Not heavier. Not lighter. Just intentional.
Shadow padded along beside him, quiet now.
"You're really doing it," came the thought, not mocking this time."
"I am," Albin said. He paused, then added, "I think."
That earned him a flick of a tail.
The street curved ahead, opening toward familiar buildings. The forge lay somewhere beyond them. He could already imagine the heat. Something solid. Something uncomplicated.
A small, practical thing.
For now, that would be enough.
XXX
The forge announced itself before he could reach it.
Metal rang against metal in a steady rhythm. Heat pressed outward, thick and heavy, carrying the scent of smoke, oil, and iron. Sparks leapt with each strike, brief flashes of light against the darker interior.
Albin remembered the place from his work when he had carried a box of nails to a carpenter.
The warmth settled into his skin. It felt present.
The smith worked without looking up, hammer rising and falling with practiced certainty. His arms were thick, marked by old burns and newer scars. The sound was steady, reliable. Each strike landed where it was meant.
Albin waited until the hammer paused.
"I need a knife," he said.
"For work?" the smith asked, already reaching for the rack.
"For carrying."
The smith turned, dark, assessing eyes. "Cutting?"
"Yes."
"Defending?"
Albin met his gaze. "If necessary."
The smith grunted and took down a blade. Short. Simple. Balanced. The handle was wrapped in worm leather, smooth where countless hands had held it before.
Albin took it. The weight surprised him. It was neither heavy nor light. It felt right.
"How much?"
"Six copper, including the sheath."
Albin took out six of his last seven coins and paid without comment.
The smith watched him slide the knife into the sheath and onto his belt. "Don't draw it unless you mean it."
Albin nodded. "I know."
Outside, Shadow waited sitting in the shade with his tail wiggling. Eyes on the routine of people on the streets.
"This is getting interesting…"
"And scary."
XXX
The Cheeky Badger was quieter than usual. Morning had settled into routine. A few guests lingered. Maya stood behind the counter, wiping it down with steady movements.
She looked up when Albin entered. Her eyes flicked to his belt. She smiled. As she always has. "You're not staying today," she said.
Albin looked around. This was where he had slept for about a week. He has gotten used to the scent of the tavern. He had gotten used to Maya, the itching straw and the people who talked about their every-day topics. A woman whom Albin helped with her groceries nodded into Albin's direction. He nodded back.
"No."
"Good."
He stepped closer to the counter. Calm and focused. "I wanted to say goodbye."
Maya leaned against the wood. "You already did. Paid what you owed, didn't ask for a meal. You're standing like someone who's leaving." She inspected Albin for a brief moment. "I've seen it before. Some of them will miss you. Will miss your help around town."
Albin hesitated. His shoulders got wider. "Thank you. For everything."
She waved it off. "You worked. You didn't make any trouble. You paid. That's enough."
She slid a slice of dried meat over the counter. "For the road."
"Thank you."
Albin didn't linger today. He didn't need to.
XXX
The road stretched ahead, pale with dust.
Albin settled the strip of his sheath. The knife rested warm against his side. Solid. Real. With each step, his breathing fell into rhythm.
The first step felt hard and cumbersome.
The second came easier.
By the fifth, he felt lighter.
Behind him, Mistelbrunn. Voices carried faintly on the wind. Somewhere, work was being done. Somewhere else, someone laughed.
Ahead of him, the road curved gently, leading toward hills and sky.
"You look better," his familiar thought.
"I feel… better," Albin replied after a moment. "Not great. Just… steadier."
"That usually comes first, hm?
"What do you mean?"
"First step you took because you wanted to."
The right corner of his mouth went up, forming an almost unnoticable smirk. His eyes focused on the road ahead.
Albin breathed out slowly. Each step required attention. Each one felt chosen, not lighter for it. Behind him, Mistelbrunn continued as it always had. Ahead, there was only distance.
No promise came with it.
He adjusted the sheath at his belt and kept walking. And soon, he stopped counting his steps.
Outworlder Level 2
New Ability acquired: Weight of Intent
New Ability acquired: Practical Continuity
The words settled in front of him, surrounded by the familiar white dust. He did not feel stronger. He felt responsible.