As Bram led them out of his small office, the soft hush of Dareth Hollow settled around them like a blanket. The air was calm — too calm.
The carriage had been left behind on the ridge to avoid drawing attention, but even as they walked the narrow dirt paths, Ryneth realized it wouldn't have mattered. The villagers had already noticed them — not with suspicion, but with quiet, measured curiosity.
Women sweeping doorways paused in unison as the two men passed. A farmer unloading grain offered a slow nod — his movements deliberate, almost rehearsed. Children stood still at corners, watching with mild, empty smiles.
Callen adjusted his coat, eyes scanning the silent lane. "Friendly lot," he murmured. "Not a whisper of gossip, not even a glare. Almost makes you miss the insults."
Ryneth's gloved hand brushed the baton at his side. "No hostility," he said. "But no spontaneity either."
They stopped for a moment near the square. The last traces of sunlight gleamed off the village's small bell tower. Its single bell hung motionless, yet Ryneth could swear he felt a faint vibration in the air — like a sound that had just stopped ringing.
Bram had offered them a house near the well, simple and tidy. Inside, it was surprisingly well-kept — clean floors, set meal, and a faint herbal scent that clung to the air. On the desk sat a candle already burning, though neither of them had lit it.
Callen dropped his satchel on the table and sat down, stretching. "So far, no monsters, no blood, no mystery. Just a village that thinks it's a painting."
Ryneth walked toward the window, glancing toward Bram's office in the square. The warden's light still burned — steady and calm. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, and beside them, Ryneth caught a glimpse of something small and sealed in dark wax. A letter, pressed with a crest he didn't recognize.
He turned away, his voice even. "We'll speak to him again in the morning. For now, we watch."
Callen raised a brow. "Watch what?"
Ryneth looked out into the quiet square once more. "How normal they can be," he said. "And how much of it is real."
The silence stretched between them, not ominous — just too perfect.
Outside, the night deepened over Dareth Hollow, calm and undisturbed. But somewhere beyond that calm, something watched back — not with hunger or malice, but with quiet, collective awareness.
The house Bram had arranged for them stood near the edge of the square — small, stone-walled, and old enough that its beams creaked with every shift of the wind. The door opened to a single room with two narrow beds, a hearth long since burned low, and a table already set with what passed for supper.
Dry bread. Salted meat. A bowl of boiled vegetables gone cold.
Callen glanced at the spread, then at Ryneth. "Hospitality," he said wryly, pulling out a chair. "The kind that reminds you you're still alive—barely."
Ryneth sat opposite him, unbuttoning his gloves before breaking a piece of bread. "Alive is a good start," he replied evenly.
They ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the low crackle of embers and the muffled hum of night insects outside.
Then Callen leaned back slightly, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. "You know, I still remember that look on Arven's face the morning we invited you in that tavern. Calm as stone, accused of theft, and somehow making us feel guilty about it."
Ryneth didn't look up. "If I were to be punished for it," he said, tone mild, "you three would've been accomplices. You didn't report it."
Callen laughed, a low, honest sound. "That was a fine move, I'll give you that. Arven said you were either too clever for your own good or just reckless enough to survive here."
"I prefer adaptable," Ryneth murmured.
"Fair," Callen said, tearing another strip of meat. "But just so you know — cleverness has a short life here. Keep your wit, just don't let it run ahead of you."
Ryneth gave a small nod, eyes glinting faintly in the dim firelight. His baton — the long, black-polished metal rod resting by his chair — caught the glow for a moment, reflecting a thin line of light.
Callen's gaze flicked to it. "That thing still feels unnatural to me," he said lightly. "Looks more like a relic than a weapon."
"It's both," Ryneth replied. "It's meant to remind."
"Of what?"
Ryneth's eyes lifted. "What happens when restraint becomes a weapon."
For a moment, Callen looked as if he might ask more — but the question faded. The quiet settled again, heavier now, as the night pressed closer outside.
Finally, Callen rose and stretched. "We should rest. Bram said the mill workers start before dawn. If we're lucky, we'll find someone sober enough to speak sense."
"And if not?"
"Then we'll have to make sense for them."
Ryneth's faint smirk returned. "A dangerous habit."
Callen grinned, heading toward the smaller adjoining room. "So's yours."
Ryneth stayed seated for a while longer, staring at the flickering light on the baton's surface. A faint tremor brushed his foresight — a pulse of unease, gone as soon as it came, leaving only silence in its wake.
When he finally rose, the hearth's last ember cracked softly — a single sound that shouldn't have echoed as far as it did.
The silence stretched again — not uncomfortable, only thoughtful. Callen had settled into his chair, turning his cup idly in his hands while Ryneth leaned back, his gaze drifting from the dying fire to the faint gleam of metal at Callen's side.
The short sword rested against the wall within easy reach, its dark sheath plain, the hilt wrapped in worn leather. Nothing ornate — but its design was unmistakable.
"That's Directorate make," Ryneth said, nodding toward it.
Callen followed his gaze, then gave a half-shrug. "Old habit. They issue one to every investigator — most keep it close even off duty. Easier to trust steel than instinct, some say."
"And you?" Ryneth asked quietly.
"I trust what gets me home in one piece." Callen's tone was light, but his eyes flickered with something sharper — memory, maybe. "The Directorate calls it a standard blade. Null-etched, if you care for the details. Doesn't hum like your baton, though."
Ryneth's fingers brushed the black-polished metal beside him, tracing the faint etchings only visible when light caught them. "The baton doesn't hum," he said.
There was a pause. Callen studied him, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You're a strange one, Ryneth. Most men who join us can't stop trying to sound normal — you do the opposite."
"Normal," Ryneth said, "is just a word for what hasn't been tested yet."
Callen grinned faintly. "You and Arven will get along just fine."
They sat there for another few minutes, listening to the distant creak of wooden shutters, the low sigh of wind pressing against the old walls.
Finally, Callen rose, fastening the short sword to its place near the bed. "Whatever this village is hiding," he said, "we'll find it. But if you see something strange, don't go chasing it alone. Happens too often — the quiet ones wander, the quiet ones vanish."
Ryneth's eyes followed him to the doorway. "If I vanish," he said softly, "I'll make sure to leave a trail worth following."
Callen looked back over his shoulder, shaking his head with a tired smile. "And that," he said, "is why Arven likes you."
He disappeared into the other room, leaving Ryneth alone once more with the dim light, the fading warmth, and the hum of something just beyond the edge of hearing — the kind of silence that waited for movement.
Outside, the night deepened.