"Ryneth Calder."
The words surfaced into reality, carrying that same faint echo he had already felt a few seconds earlier. Turning around, Ryneth saw the man standing a few paces away — a little taller than him, with soft brown hair that caught the sunlight and a face almost too calm for someone in his profession. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, concealing the insignia beneath — though the faint outline of the Crown's sigil was still visible against the fabric.
Ryneth recognized him instantly. Callen.
He approached, his steps measured, composed — neither aggressive nor hesitant. "The chief investigator of Leslie's case, Arven Thane, has asked for your presence," he said. His tone was formal but not cold, as if he was still unsure whether he was addressing a witness… or something else entirely.
For a brief moment, Ryneth didn't respond. His gaze lingered on Callen's lips, watching the words form in perfect sync with what he had already heard inside his head seconds before. The faint hum in the back of his skull returned — not pain, but pressure, like a soundless vibration reminding him that his sense of time was no longer the same as others'.
"For what purpose?" Ryneth asked, his voice calm but touched with hesitation.
Callen's eyes shifted briefly to the side, scanning the crowded street. The flow of people passed around them like a current parting around two unmoving stones. He leaned in slightly, lowering his tone. "That, I cannot tell you," he said, almost as if the words themselves were dangerous to be spoken aloud.
There was a pause — not silence, but the soft murmur of the city filling the space between them.
"It's related to Leslie's case," Callen continued, straightening his posture again. "We won't take too much of your time."
Ryneth studied him for a moment, his thoughts running quieter than usual, though that faint hum in the back of his mind never truly stopped. Leslie's case… Even hearing her name now felt like pressing on a bruise that hadn't healed.
He glanced toward the direction of the Arcanum, then back at Callen. The sunlight, filtering through the gaps between the tall buildings, cut across his face in thin slivers — half shadow, half light.
From the outside, the small restaurant didn't seem like the kind of place where Directorate officials would hold a meeting. It sat tucked between two narrow alleys, its sign faded and half-hidden by a cloth banner that swayed faintly in the morning wind. Callen moved ahead without a word, his steps quick but measured, as though each one had already been decided for him.
Ryneth followed silently. He kept his gaze down, not out of fear, but caution — his mind still haunted by the strange murmurs and fleeting glimpses of what might happen. The street noise dimmed as they stepped through the wooden door, the faint chime of a bell breaking the quiet.
Inside, the restaurant smelled faintly of tea and burning wood. The space was small, neat, with tables arranged too closely for comfort. Only a handful of patrons sat scattered about — merchants, perhaps, or off-duty guards — but none seemed to pay them any attention.
Callen led him toward the far corner, where the light dimmed and the air felt a little colder. There, at the last table by the wall, sat two figures. A man and a woman. Both were silent, but their presence carried a weight that made the noise of clinking cups and whispered conversations fade away.
Ryneth's steps slowed. He recognized them immediately — Arven Thane and Morwen Hale.
Arven's presence commanded the space without needing to speak; his posture was sharp, his dark coat folded perfectly, the faintest trace of gray running through his hair. Morwen sat across from him, her hands loosely clasped, eyes calm yet watchful — the kind of gaze that seemed to peel back thought from flesh.
Callen gestured quietly for Ryneth to sit.
Ryneth's mind flickered. The Directorate doesn't summon people like me to restaurants. Something about the quiet, the calm civility of the setting, felt worse than any interrogation chamber.
He took the seat opposite the two, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. The air between them was still — like a held breath.
"So," Arven began, his voice low yet carrying effortlessly across the table, "how's your work going, Ryneth Calder?"
The question sounded simple, almost casual, but Ryneth knew better. Nothing about Arven Thane was ever casual.
"Q–Quite well, sir," Ryneth replied, his tone steadying only after the first syllable. His hands remained on his lap, not fidgeting — he wouldn't allow himself that weakness — but his heartbeat drummed in his ears all the same.
Arven's gaze stayed fixed on him, unreadable. "Any theories," he asked, leaning slightly forward, "about the possible reasons for the symptoms?"
The sharpness of his tone wasn't born of accusation, but of precision — the kind of precision that cut through excuses and forced only truth. Ryneth felt the weight of the question sink into him.
He straightened instinctively, as though a single breath of hesitation might shatter the fragile trust in the room.
"Actually…" he began, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts. "Yes, sir. I think I may have an explanation."
Arven's eyes didn't move, but a faint spark of intrigue glimmered in them. Across from him, Morwen's expression shifted just slightly — not surprise, but curiosity sharpened by skepticism.
"Go on," she said, her voice quiet, measured, and carrying a tone that left no room for fabrication.
Ryneth nodded once, the faintest quiver of tension visible in his throat as he prepared to explain. The faint clinking of cups from the other side of the restaurant sounded almost unreal in the growing stillness around their table.
Ryneth hesitated for a moment before beginning, his eyes falling briefly to the faint steam curling from his untouched cup. He drew a slow breath.
"The symptoms," he started, his voice low but steady, "didn't appear because of physical or mental strain. They emerged because of… perception — a change in the way one sees the world."
He paused for a heartbeat, measuring his words carefully.
"The texts — they don't hold any direct resonance. They simply alter how the reader interprets reality itself. They reshape the very filters through which we perceive."
Morwen leaned slightly forward, her expression unreadable. The quiet clink of her ring against the wooden table filled the silence. Arven sat across from her, still as glass, his eyes fixed on Ryneth — sharp, steady, unblinking.
Ryneth continued, his tone growing quieter but more certain, "Leslie didn't lose her mind because she was weak. She understood what the texts truly meant. Her perception fractured, and the world that followed was no longer the one she knew. It wasn't the text that destroyed her… it was what she began to see."
Silence. Heavy, pressing, deliberate.
Then Arven spoke, his tone calm yet edged with something that felt surgical — a voice that stripped away pretenses.
"If that's the case, Ryneth," he said slowly, "why did you not show any symptoms after reading them?"
The question fell into the space between them like a blade. Ryneth's breath caught. His heartbeat echoed in his chest louder than the quiet hum of the tavern around them.
How fast can he deduce such things? Ryneth thought, his mind racing. Does he already suspect me? Or is he only testing how far I'll lie?
Ryneth took a slow breath, feeling the weight of Arven's gaze. He forced himself to sound confident.
"Perhaps… the texts are like puzzles," he began carefully. "Those who attempt to grasp the entirety at once overwhelm themselves. Their minds fracture because they perceive too much simultaneously. But studying only fragments… it allows the perception to adjust gradually. Partial comprehension keeps the mind intact."
He kept his voice steady, though inside his chest tightened. Will they see through this? He thought. If they knew what I endured…
Arven's sharp eyes flicked over him, and Ryneth's stomach tightened. Morwen leaned forward slightly, a hint of intrigue in her expression. "Interesting," she said, her tone neutral but probing.
Ryneth exhaled quietly, relief mingling with lingering unease. He forced a small, calm smile. I need them to believe me. Any hint of hesitation, and they'll dig deeper.
Callen, standing nearby, leaned his foot against the wall, observing silently. His presence made Ryneth's thoughts flutter — he had to maintain composure, not just for the investigators, but under the watchful gaze of someone who might notice the slightest crack in his facade.
Arven's voice broke the silence. "Very well. We'll note your theory. Keep observing, and report any anomalies immediately."
Ryneth nodded, though inside, a quiet pulse of fear lingered. The memory of Leslie, the texts, and the whispers — none of it could be revealed. Not yet.