By the time Ryneth left the Directorate's marble steps, the morning had already slipped toward noon. The sun hung pale and high, half veiled behind clouds, turning the air faintly gold but cool. The streets outside carried the rhythm of late-day trade — merchants calling, carriages clattering over uneven cobblestones, the faint murmur of city life pushing against the stone walls like a heartbeat.
Waiting by the curb was a dark carriage marked by a faint emblem — the Directorate's twin-ringed flame, etched near the latch in silver that caught light only when seen from the right angle. Beside it stood Callen, coat half-buttoned, posture easy and unbothered. He looked as though he'd been waiting for hours and hadn't minded it at all.
"Took you long enough," Callen said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."
"I considered it," Ryneth replied evenly.
Callen's grin widened. "You'll fit right in." He motioned toward the carriage. "Come on then. Dareth Hollow's half a day north. If we're lucky, we'll make the ridge before the sun starts sulking."
Ryneth stepped in after him. The door shut with a muted click, sealing them inside the small, dim space. The carriage smelled faintly of oil, parchment, and polished wood. Two benches faced each other; Callen sprawled across one, boots loosely crossed, while Ryneth sat upright opposite him.
As the wheels began to turn, the city started to fade — cobbled streets giving way to the gentle slope of countryside roads, where the air grew sharper and the noises dulled to the steady rhythm of hooves and wind.
For a while, neither spoke. Ryneth rested his hands loosely on his knees, his mind wandering between fragments of thought — the faint scrape of the quill from yesterday's agreement, Morwen's quiet instructions, Arven's calm eyes when he said cleansed. The words echoed faintly, like a chill carried by memory.
A slight shift in motion tugged at his attention — not from outside, but from within. That quiet pull again. His foresight never shouted; it whispered, subtle and inconsistent. The sway of the carriage seemed to slow an instant before it did, as though his mind traced each movement just ahead of the world's rhythm. He blinked it away, used to the sensation but never entirely comfortable with it.
Callen broke the silence first. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"Only when necessary," Ryneth replied.
"That'll change." Callen leaned back with a faint smile. "Give it a week in the Directorate and you'll be arguing reports with half the staff. We all start quiet — ends faster that way."
Ryneth glanced toward the window. "And you?"
"I talk so I don't get buried in the silence," Callen said, drumming his fingers against his knee. "That's what gets most people in this line — not the danger, not the secrecy. Just the quiet. It starts listening back."
Ryneth allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You make it sound poetic."
Callen shrugged. "Poetry and madness share a wall."
The road turned gently north, the city shrinking into a haze of rooftops behind them. Fields rolled by — wheat bending in the wind, the occasional stone farmhouse, flocks of dark birds tracing uneven shapes in the pale sky.
After a long stretch of silence, Callen pulled his insignia from inside his coat, studying its gleam before tucking it away again. "Keep yours hidden," he said, tapping his pocket. "We're not exactly admired beyond the walls. The Directorate's reputation is… complicated."
"I've noticed," Ryneth murmured. His own insignia rested in his coat pocket, its weight subtle but constant — like a mark he hadn't yet earned but already carried.
"And that stick you've got there?" Callen nodded toward the long baton resting beside Ryneth's seat, wrapped in dark cloth. "Not many choose the null baton. Practical choice — quiet, balanced. Not much show, but it listens well to those who pay attention."
Ryneth glanced at it — three and a half feet of black, polished metal, its surface smooth except for faint sigils etched along its length, barely visible except when the light caught them at an angle. "I wasn't looking for a weapon," he said. "Just something that responds."
Callen chuckled. "You and Morwen both. She says tools should feel alive. I say they should be replaceable."
"Maybe that's why she's still her, and you're still you," Ryneth said quietly.
Callen laughed, a low, genuine sound. "Maybe so."
Hours passed like that — quiet intervals of road, talk, and the soft percussion of hooves against dirt. The landscape changed gradually from farmland to sparse woodland. The trees thickened, their canopies filtering the afternoon light into long, slanting beams that turned gold to amber.
As the carriage continues its slow climb along the dirt road, the sun begins to dip toward the horizon. The sound of the wheels dulls against the changing terrain — from the paved edges of the city to the coarse gravel and loose earth of the countryside.
Inside, silence lingers for a while. Ryneth's gaze drifts out the window. The fields beyond stretch wide and pale, touched by amber light, and far in the distance, thin plumes of smoke rise from the direction of Dareth Hollow. His foresight flickers faintly — a dull tug in the chest, like a thread being pulled taut. Nothing clear, only the suggestion of something waiting.
Callen breaks the silence first.
"You know," he says, leaning back with a lazy grin, "the last time I was sent to a place this quiet, the locals thought we drank blood."
Ryneth arches an eyebrow. "Did you correct them?"
"I did. Told them we prefer ink and lies."
Ryneth almost smiles. "Comforting."
The humor fades slowly as the carriage jolts over a rough patch of road. The air outside has cooled, and the faint scent of burning pine drifts in through the small window slit.
As dusk begins to fall, the driver pulls the reins and slows. Ahead, the road narrows into an old stone bridge spanning a shallow ravine. Beyond it, the faint outline of Dareth Hollow comes into view — clustered roofs, crooked chimneys, and a single bell tower standing against the fading sky.
But before they can cross, the driver mutters something under his breath and halts the carriage completely. "End of the line, sirs," he says, without turning. "You'll have to walk the rest. Folks don't take kindly to Directorate markings here."
Ryneth and Callen exchange a look. Neither argues. Both reach for their insignias, tucking the twin-ringed flames deeper into their coats.
Ryneth steps down first, the dirt crunching beneath his boots. The sun is a thin, dying line above the trees. The air hums with stillness — the kind that feels too deliberate.
Callen slings his satchel over his shoulder, glancing toward the village. "Well," he mutters, half to himself, "welcome to Dareth Hollow."
Ryneth's foresight stirs again — a flicker of something he can't quite see. The wind carries the faint echo of a bell, though the tower ahead is still.
He looks toward the distant rooftops, eyes narrowing. "Something's off."
Callen follows his gaze. "Good. Means we're in the right place."