Ryneth woke before dawn, though the sun had yet to pierce through the city's haze. His eyes opened to the familiar gloom of his apartment — the uneven ceiling, the faint drafts slipping through the cracks in the wooden frame, the cold stillness that always felt heavier after dreams.
He sat up slowly, his hands resting against the edge of the bed. The remnants of sleep clung to his mind — that same flickering half-sensation of violet light and silence he could never quite explain. For a moment, he simply sat there, feeling the city wake around him. Somewhere outside, a vendor shouted. A wheel clattered over cobblestone. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the streets damp and faintly gleaming in the morning haze.
He rose, washed, and dressed with mechanical calm. His coat hung slightly uneven from its left shoulder — the same one he'd worn yesterday when everything had quietly shifted. When Arven made his offer. When Ryneth agreed to step into something he didn't yet understand.
The faint tremor of foresight brushed his mind as he fastened the last button. A fleeting pulse, no image this time — just the sense that he was already on a path too narrow to turn back from.
By the time he reached the streets, the city had come alive in muted rhythm. The smell of wet stone and the faint hum of early chatter carried through the air. He walked without hurry, the heel of his boots striking lightly against the cobbles, his thoughts moving faster than his steps. His eyes moved with practiced subtlety — over the faces, the passing carts, the distant banners half-soaked from the rain. Every detail felt sharper than it should, as though some part of him were already anticipating what came next.
The restaurant appeared around a bend — small, unassuming, its wooden sign still glistening faintly with moisture. The same place where it all began. The thought made his lips tighten faintly, though not quite into a smile.
He paused by the door, his hand brushing the edge of its frame. For a heartbeat, that strange instinct flared again — not a vision, but the faint certainty that someone inside had been waiting for him longer than she would admit. Then he pushed the door open.
The interior smelled of spice and burnt tea leaves. It was quieter than yesterday. The same soft lanterns hung from the ceiling, their warm light catching in thin ribbons across the floor. The tables were mostly empty now, except for one in the far corner.
Morwen sat there, straight-backed, precise as ever. Her presence didn't command attention — it silenced it. The faint curl of a smirk touched her lips when she noticed him.
"You're punctual," she said.
"I assumed the invitation wasn't one to refuse," he replied, stepping closer.
She motioned toward the seat across from her. "You assume correctly."
He sat. The chair creaked faintly beneath him. Between them lay a single envelope — plain, sealed in colorless wax, as though designed to be forgettable.
For a long while, silence held. The faint drip of rainwater from the eaves outside punctuated it, slow and steady.
"You've made your decision, then," Morwen said at last.
Ryneth's gaze lingered on the envelope. "Decisions are easy when one has no choices."
"That's not what I asked."
He looked up, studying her. Morwen's expression didn't shift, but something beneath it — calculation, perhaps — flickered briefly. "I made it," he said after a moment. "Though I still wonder if the choice was ever mine."
Morwen slid the envelope toward him. "The Directorate doesn't deal in choices. Only directions."
The paper was cold against his fingertips. His foresight brushed faintly again — the flicker of his hand opening it later, the glint of metal under candlelight, a drop of wax falling, silent. Small, useless things, but still enough to remind him it was real.
"You'll meet someone from the Directorate shortly," she said. "Finish your drink, if you wish. The carriage outside is for you."
He looked toward the window. The street beyond glowed with pale light — and yes, there it was: a black carriage, its lanterns dull but steady.
"Tell me," he said, his tone quiet, measured, "do all your recruits get such… formal treatment?"
Morwen allowed herself a faint, knowing smile. "Only the ones Arven finds interesting."
He gave a small exhale that might have been a laugh, though it carried no real humor. "Then I suppose I'll have to stay interesting."
Morwen stood, her cloak brushing the chair's edge. "Do." She left without another word.
Ryneth stayed seated for a while, staring at the envelope. His reflection stared back from the polished table — distant, uncertain, and yet unmistakably calm. Somewhere in the quiet corners of his mind, the foresight whispered again — corridors, faint candlelight, the rustle of parchment, and something vast waiting in the distance.
He finished his drink, set the cup down, and rose.
The rain had stopped completely.
And outside, the carriage waited.
not the grim kind that reeked of secrecy, but one that looked official. Its deep navy paint bore the faint emblem of the Crown's Directorate: a stylized flame entwined by two circles — balance within control. The crest was small, subtle, but its presence made the carriage stand apart from anything else on the street.
The driver gave a short nod as Morwen approached. "To the main office," she said.
The carriage moved through the city's central districts — wide stone avenues bordered by arches and pale buildings that gleamed faintly under the sun. Ryneth's eyes traced the structures passing by — old academies, trade halls, clock towers — until finally, the Directorate appeared into view.
It stood tall at the end of the boulevard, a broad, symmetrical structure of pale stone, its facade marked by pillars and high windows. Above its entrance hung the same emblem he'd seen on the carriage — but here, it was carved in iron, large enough to cast a faint shadow on the steps below.
There was no air of darkness or deceit — only authority. The kind that did not need to show itself loudly to be absolute.
As the carriage halted, Ryneth stepped out, his boots clicking softly against the clean marble steps. The air here was sharper, clearer — and quieter. The usual city noise seemed to fade at the Directorate's perimeter, replaced by the faint murmur of wind and the rhythmic echo of distant footsteps from within.
Morwen led the way through the tall doors. Inside, the halls were bright — not warm, but meticulously ordered. Files, ledgers, maps, all arranged with mechanical precision. The scent of parchment and ink hung faintly in the air, familiar yet different — colder, more exacting.
Every step Ryneth took echoed softly, like a clock ticking in an empty room. His foresight trembled faintly — small sensations brushing the edge of awareness. A door closing just before it happened. A quill snapping in a distant room.
They walked through a long corridor lined with brass lamps before finally reaching a tall door engraved with the Directorate's emblem. Morwen paused, then turned to him.
"This is where you begin," she said. "Arven's inside."
Ryneth gave a slow nod. "And if I change my mind?"
Her gaze softened just slightly, though her tone did not. "You won't."
She opened the door.
Light spilled from within — pale and golden, casting long shadows across the floor.
Ryneth stepped forward, the air shifting subtly around him. His foresight sparked once more — a flicker, a voice just out of reach, a sentence not yet spoken. His heartbeat steadied as he crossed the threshold.
The door closed quietly behind him.