The sun slanted low over Blount's western rooftops, gilding everything in soft soft, amber haze. The buzz of day still lingered—children's voices chasing each other between alleyways, merchants packing down stalls with practiced ease—but the sharp edge of duty had dulled. For now.
They had time to breathe. Just a little.
After confirming their accommodations and finalizing the last of their reports, the group agreed—wordlessly more than anything—to scatter. No errands, no schedule. Just space. A rare thing these days. Funny how being in the open, beyond city gates, can be so constricting.
Koda wasn't actually fully aware of when the others slipped away—Seta with her head already buried in a borrowed map, Terron muttering something about local forges, Elise and the twins drifting into the current of a nearby plaza. But Maia had stayed beside him, her shoulder brushing his from time to time, neither of them speaking.
And then—without warning or question—she took his hand.
It was a simple thing, soft and sure, fingers curling into his with a warmth that silenced whatever awkward flutter had started to rise in his chest. She didn't look at him, not right away. Just tugged him gently down a quieter lane where the sounds of the street began to fall away.
Blount was different here. Quieter. Less tense.
Tucked between tightly built stone homes were little shops full of handspun cloth and polished woodcraft, shuttered windows framed by flower boxes—actual flowers, not herbs or practicality. Laughter drifted from behind a fence as a pair of children chased a painted hoop down the lane. A baker's stall nearby filled the air with the scent of cardamom and sugar, and for the first time in a long while, the world didn't feel like it was unraveling.
They passed under hanging lanterns not yet lit, and Maia glanced up, eyes catching the gentle sway of the glass orbs before landing back on him.
"We've never done this," she said with a small smile, still not letting go.
Koda's brow lifted. "Lantern watching?"
She nudged him, just enough. "A date. You and me. No war. No gods. No swords."
"Hard to believe we needed a near-apocalypse to find the time."
"That's the thing about time," she murmured, "it never makes itself. We take it, or we lose it."
They walked like that for a while, letting the streets guide them. A few vendors offered warm snacks, and they shared a crisped rice pastry between them, laughing when Maia nearly burned her tongue. Koda tried not to stare when she smiled—failed at it, and didn't care. She caught him more than once, her cheeks tinged pink but her eyes never wavering.
The silence between them was comfortable now. Charged, but not heavy.
As twilight settled over the city and the first lanterns sparked to life, casting soft light across the cobblestone, Koda finally asked, "So… is this what normal is supposed to feel like?"
Maia leaned against him just slightly, her voice low. "Its a shame we can't just stay like this."
He didn't answer. Just gave her hand the lightest squeeze.
As the sun dipped lower, washing the stone streets in amber and shadow, Koda let his gaze wander across the lantern-lit windows and slow-drifting smoke of evening hearths.
"Funny," he said, thumb brushing the back of Maia's hand. "A month ago I thought this kind of quiet would feel empty. Now it just feels… loud, in a good way."
Maia's lips curved slightly.
"You're just not used to peace yet."
"Not even close." He chuckled under his breath. "But maybe I could be. If it's like this."
She bumped his shoulder lightly with hers.
"Then we'd better make the most of it. Before the world catches fire again."
He gave her a side glance, half-serious.
"Think it'll let us have one full evening?"
"No," she said, without missing a beat. "But we'll steal one anyway."
Maia gave his hand a sudden tug, a spark of mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Come on," she said, grinning. "If we're stealing the night, might as well make it count."
Before he could protest or ask where they were going, she was already pulling him along—darting through the thinning crowd like a flame catching wind. He followed, half-laughing, letting her set the pace.
They turned down a busier street, still alive with the rhythm of late revelry. Music drifted from open tavern doors, the clatter of mugs and bursts of laughter spilling into the open air. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting golden halos across cobblestone slick with the day's wear.
Maia spun on her heel to face him, walking backward now, her smile carefree.
"No more war stories. No more monsters. Just us. Just tonight."
Koda didn't answer—he didn't have to. He caught up, took her hand more firmly in his, and didn't let go.
They vanished into the warm yellow glow of the street lamps, where the city still breathed, still sang—and for a little while longer, their worries and responsibilities eased into the cooling night.
——
The city had gone quiet.
Not dead—just… still. The kind of hush that settled when even the rowdiest souls had stumbled home, and only the occasional clatter of a dropped mug or the far-off bark of laughter hinted at the chaos that had ruled the streets hours before.
Koda and Maia walked side by side, the night air cool against flushed cheeks, the last remnants of drink still glowing warm in their chests. The sky above was cloudless, stars pricked sharp and brilliant between the dark silhouettes of Blount's rising spires. The lamps lining the cobbled streets burned low, their amber light casting long shadows that stretched and mingled like slow-moving ghosts.
Their footfalls were soft, steady. At one point, Maia laughed—gentle, stifled behind her hand—and Koda joined her, the sound of it slipping between the silent shutters and heavy doors like something sacred. For a moment, they were just two people in a sleeping city, untethered from what they'd fought, what still waited ahead.
The inn came into view, its wooden sign swinging slightly in the night breeze. Inside, the light was dim and warm, spilling through the small windows in rippling gold. The door gave a low groan as they pushed it open.
The common room was nearly empty now. A couple of patrons remained, draped over their tables in various states of defeat, snoring softly. Behind the bar, a single oil lamp kept vigil, its flame flickering quietly over worn countertops and scattered mugs. The old wooden floor creaked beneath their boots as they crossed to the stairs.
At the foot of them, Maia stopped.
She turned to Koda, swaying just a little, eyes bright under the lamplight.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For today… for everything."
He looked down at her, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I should be the one saying that."
There was a beat of silence, heavy and warm between them. Then she gave him a small nod and leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek before whispering—
"Goodnight, Koda."
She turned and ascended the stairs without looking back.
He stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear into the upper hall, the shadows swallowing her frame one step at a time.
The inn creaked again behind him. A soft sigh of wood, like the building itself settling into sleep.
Then he climbed the stairs, too.
The stillness didn't follow him up the stairs.
It clung, instead, like a fog caught in the corners—something too calculative, too deliberate. With each creaking step, the silence began to twist, no longer a comfort but something… else. Each footfall sounded too loud, like it was being swallowed by something vast and unseen, echoing only after it should've faded.
Koda paused outside his door. His fingers hovered over the iron latch, hesitation prickling up his spine. The corridor behind him was empty, but the feeling wouldn't leave him. Like a gaze brushing the back of his neck—unblinking. Not malevolent, not quite. But there.
He opened the door.
The creak was long and slow, stretched like breath held too long.
His room was just as he'd left it—small, plain, and bathed in the low gold of a wall-mounted sconce burning close to death. Shadows clung to the corners. The bed was made, his pack untouched in the corner.
But something was different.
There, placed neatly on the desk beneath the narrow window, was a sealed envelope. The wax was black, unbroken, the sigil pressed into it unmistakable even from where he stood.
The Order.
He closed the door behind him, quieter this time. The latch clicked like a ticking clock. He moved toward the envelope slowly, each step measured, eyes never leaving the seal. He broke it with a thumb and slid the parchment free. The writing inside was sparse, neat, and unmistakably precise.
Koda,
We have followed your movements since your arrival in Blount. Your presence was anticipated, though not in this form. Your actions have not gone unnoticed—either by us or the shifting tides that turn against this continent.
You are not the only one who has felt it.
There are reports. Dozens. Each more troubling than the last.
Undead, yes—but not from the East. Not from what you faced before. From the West.
The lands around the basin have begun to shift. The dead no longer rest in the hills of the old passes. The rot stirs from beneath. Bone rises in silence. And at the center of it all is Callestan.
The sanctuary still holds, though barely. A minor city, a quiet bulwark in the lowlands, preserving a semblance of stability. But it now finds itself surrounded. The rifts—fractures of the veil—grow bolder. Hungrier. One in particular, vast and violent, pulses like an infected wound a day's travel north of Callestan's gates.
We require someone who can do more than survive.
We require someone who can close it.
You have proven capable. You have seen the other side of the veil and returned. That makes you singular.
The city of Blount is not yet lost. It will hold, for now. But the basin cannot. Not alone.
This request is not issued lightly. We know the weight you already carry. But you must carry this too.
We need a symbol. A sword. A hope.
Speak to no one of this letter. Burn it before dawn.
—For the Quiet Flame, and the Eternal Guide.