Volume 2:
Chapter 3: The Eyes That Don't Speak
Morning arrived with a gray, suffocating silence. The sky above Verrindal was overcast again, not stormy, but dull—as though the sun had grown too ashamed to show its face.
We stepped out from the inn into the cold embrace of the streets. Stones clacked beneath our boots, dew clinging to the edges of the buildings. Nothing stirred beyond the occasional rustle of a curtain snapping shut as we passed. The town wasn't abandoned—it was inhabited. But it felt like walking through the remnants of something that had already died.
Our footsteps echoed more than they should have. It was a place where sound didn't want to stay.
"Let's begin," I said, my voice subdued.
We started with the merchants. There were a few—hunched figures behind dusty stalls, selling withered vegetables, old cloth, or rusted tools. When we greeted them, they didn't speak. Just looked at us.
Their eyes were the same.
Dim.
Lifeless.
Terrified.
One man kept polishing a cracked bowl over and over, his hands trembling even though there was no visible cold. When Cilia asked him a question about the town, he simply bowed his head and turned his back. Another woman clutched her child tighter as we approached, her lips moving as if in prayer, but her voice too soft to carry.
"This is hopeless," Lina muttered after the third encounter. She crossed her arms. "They're making it hard to help."
Cilia looked at the huddled townsfolk with quiet sorrow. "Fear has gripped the heart," she whispered.
It wasn't just silence we were fighting.
It was something deeper—something that had wormed its way into their very spirits.
We tried the square. A few townspeople gathered there in a thin, watchful line. One elderly man dropped his bag when we passed. His hands shook as he picked it up, eyes wide with a kind of horror you don't see in wars—only in cages.
A child peeked from behind her mother's skirt. Her eyes, too, carried that same strange, ancient dread, far too old for someone her size.
"They act like we're ghosts," Lina whispered.
"No," I said. "Like they're the ghosts."
We kept walking.
The town bled silence, and the silence bled deeper into us with every step.
Eventually, as we turned down a narrow cobblestone path lined with crooked lanterns, something different caught our eyes: a stone chapel, its bell tower half-cracked, its stained-glass windows smudged by time. And in front of it—life.
A woman sat beneath the shade of a crumbling archway, surrounded by children. She was brushing one girl's hair gently while another clung to her sleeve. There was a boy sleeping beside her lap, clutching an old toy carved from wood.
She wore a long, tattered robe—once a ceremonial white, now the color of bone and ash. Her hair was streaked with gray and tied back in a humble braid. Her hands, worn and blistered, moved with grace.
She looked up when she saw us.
But unlike the others… she didn't flinch.
Her gaze didn't carry the weight of fear.
It held recognition.
And something close to warmth.
"You don't belong here," she said softly.
"You can tell?" Cilia asked.
The woman smiled, just barely. "I can always tell."
She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her clothes. "Come inside. I'll put on tea. The little ones don't mind sharing their sweets, do they?"
The children looked at us wide-eyed, but none ran. One even offered Lina a small, crumbling biscuit from his pocket. She took it with an awkward smile.
The woman guided us into the chapel. The air inside was thick with incense and old memories. Pews were cracked but clean, candles lit even in the day. A faded mural stretched across the ceiling—angels and knights and a kingdom bathed in gold.
We were ushered into a small side room. It was warm here. Not in temperature, but in feeling.
She poured tea from a battered kettle into chipped porcelain cups and laid out what little she had: dry pastries, soft bread, and honey from a hidden jar.
"I'm called Serenia," she said. "I was a deacon… once. Maybe I still am. Titles lose meaning in places like this."
"And the children?" Cilia asked gently.
"Orphans. Strays. The forgotten. I do what I can."
She looked at us again. "You're new. That much is obvious. No one carries themselves like that anymore unless they've walked freely. You still look up."
We shared glances. There was no use lying.
Serenia sighed. "You should leave. But I know you won't."
"We want to help," Lina said. "But no one's speaking."
"They're not allowed to," Serenia replied.
"By law?" I asked.
"No. By fear."
Her voice turned bitter.
"The king does not rule with words. He rules with silence. People vanish for less than a whisper. It's said even birds dare not sing near his spire. Spies are everywhere. He has... eyes."
She paused.
"And ears that are not human."
We all froze for a moment.
She went on. "If you stay, never be caught walking alone. Never speak ill of the king near glass, water, or shadow. And whatever you do, never stay outside when the sun falls behind the clouds. That's when they come."
"They?" Lina asked.
Serenia looked at the candle in the center of the table.
And didn't answer.
The rest of our conversation was lighter. Or at least, she tried to make it so. She told us where to buy food, where not to go, how to knock on doors politely, and how to avoid certain guards.
"Kindness," she said, "can still grow in dark places. But you must be careful where you plant it."
The sun had long since dipped below the clouds. A hush fell across the chapel like a veil.
"You should go," Serenia said, standing.
We thanked her. The children waved goodbye, and one girl ran up to hand Cilia a paper flower.
She smiled and knelt to accept it. "Thank you."
The chapel doors closed behind us with a hollow thud.
Verrindal was colder now.
Colder than the wind.
We walked back to the inn in silence, the streets now completely barren. Not even a lantern flickered.
And for the first time…
We felt watched.