Early Morning
Moon's Day
24th of Avril, Year 824 of the Silent Age
PROJO'S QUEST LOG:
+ [ACTIVE] Understanding the Curse: Work with Falira to uncover the nature of your powers.
+ Repay Bram (Owe 24 Gold)
+ Return to Mira
PROJO'S INVENTORY:
+ Money: 17 Gold, 14 Silver, 18 Copper
- (Previous: 17G 14S 34C -10C for Food, -6C for Firewood)
+ Weapons: Iron Longsword, Gideon's Iron Dagger
+ Armor: Crude Leather Cuirass
+ Supplies: Flint & Steel
----
Projo froze at the sound—a soft, unmistakable moan from behind the curtain. His eyes widened, his whole body rigid. Her silhouette shifted beneath the covers, arching slightly. Another low sound followed, breathy and drawn out.
His face burned hot with a flush of embarrassment. He felt like an intruder, a spy in the most private space imaginable. His mind raced.
Gods, is she...?
He thought of their arguments—the teasing, the compliment about her hair—it had never even occurred to him that it may lead to something like this. Or that he'd be an unintentional witness to it.
If she woke up and saw him staring, he wasn't sure which of them would die of mortification first.
Moving in a careful panic, he silently closed the book and placed it on the table. He leaned forward, folded his arms, and placed his head down, facing away from her alcove. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and forced his breathing into a slow, deep, and hopefully convincing rhythm.
He wasn't a monster. He wasn't spying. He was just a blacksmith's apprentice who had fallen asleep reading. And he hadn't heard a thing.
A final, soft sigh drifted from behind the curtain, different from the others. Projo clenched every muscle, keeping his breathing steady. His heartbeat thundered like a hammer on anvil.
He heard the rustle of blankets, the creak of her cot, the silence stretching long enough to fray his nerves. Projo could almost feel her eyes on him, trying to discern if he was truly asleep. He focused on the rough grain of the wood under his forearms, counting the seconds.
There was a click of her spectacles settling onto her face. Bare feet touched stone. A splash of water followed by the rustle of her robes being pulled on.
She was awake.
She was moving.
Projo stayed locked in his feigned sleep, every nerve screaming for stillness.
He heard her approach the table. The silence was unbearable. He could picture her standing over him, watching.
THUD.
A heavy book slammed down on the table, not an inch from his head.
Projo shot upright with a strangled gasp, heart pounding, his neck aching from the chair.
"Wha...?" he managed, his voice a convincing, groggy rasp. He blinked several times, his eyes bleary.
Falira stood before him, arms crossed, her expression flat and jaw set. Her hair was damp from the basin, cheeks faintly flushed—the only sign of the... anomaly.
"It is morning," Falira stated, her voice crisp and devoid of any warmth. "The period of rest is concluded."
She turned away before he could answer. "There is bread on the counter. Eat. I am recalibrating the parameters for today's experiments based on… inconsistencies."
The message was clear:
The dream had never happened.
The subject was awake, and the researcher was back in control.
"Uh, okay," Projo muttered, dragging himself toward the counter. He tore a chunk of dry bread and took a bite. "Good morning, I guess."
Falira picked up a glass beaker, held it up to light, and began polishing an imaginary smudge with a cloth.
"Prior experiments yielded anomalous results," she stated like a lecturer addressing a classroom. "The data suggests that the siphoning process is not solely dependent on physical proximity or surface area, but may be influenced by the subject's psycho-somatic state."
She set the beaker down with a soft click and finally turned to face him. The faint flush on her cheeks was still there, a stubborn data point she was determined to ignore.
"The recalibration, therefore, requires a new protocol with stricter controls."
She began to tick points off on her fingers. "First, we must establish a baseline for your 'emotional resonance'. I will monitor your pulse, respiration, and ambient energy fluctuations under various controlled stimuli."
"Second, we will re-run the previous experiments—single-point contact, full palm-to-palm contact—but this time, we will attempt to introduce a controlled emotional catalyst."
She paused, her gaze sharp and analytical. "We will test neutrality. Then, we will test a state of focused cooperation. We need to determine if a shared objective, a willing 'giving' of energy, has a quantifiable effect on the transference rate."
Projo tried to respond through a mouthful of bread, but the words came out in a muffled, incoherent spray of crumbs. He swallowed hard, the lump of dough going down like a stone, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Okay," he said more clearly this time. "Where do we begin?"
A flicker of something—satisfaction, perhaps—crossed Falira's face before it vanished behind her usual mask.
"Here," she gestured sharply to a chair. "Sit. The first step is to establish a proper baseline in a controlled, resting state."
As Projo settled into the seat, she approached. She didn't touch—she just stood beside him, pulling a small intricate pocket watch from her belt.
"Breathe normally," she instructed. Her eyes stayed on the watch while her free hand hovered near his wrist. The silence thickened, broken only by the soft ticking. Heat crept into his face. Being measured like this felt more invasive than their arguments ever had.
"Respiration steady," she murmured. "Pulse slightly elevated, but within expected parameters for the subject." She snapped the watch shut and stepped back. "Baseline established."
She turned away, retrieving a candle and setting it between them.
"Now, the primary experiment." She looked him directly in the eye. "We will attempt to light this wick. Not with a spell, but with shared intent. It is a simple, measurable objective."
She sat opposite him. "Place your hand on the table, palm up. I will do the same. We will not touch. The variable is not contact, but synchronized will."
Projo placed his hand how she requested.
Her hand came to rest an inch from his own. "I want you to look at the wick. See it in your mind's eye, glowing red, then catching into a flame. Don't force it. Don't try to unleash a torrent of power. Just... hold the image. Believe it will happen. I will do the same. We will lend our energy to a single, simple task. Together."
He focused on the candle, then thought of the forge—remembering a single nail pulled from the coals, glowing cherry-red just before the hammer fell. He pictured that heat flowing into the wick. waiting for the familiar tingle, the hungry pull of energy.
A glow stirred at the base of the wick. With a soft flick, a flame caught, casting a warm, dancing light on their faces.
A slow grin spread across Projo's face. "See? I told—"
He stopped.
He hadn't felt it.
There was no draw, no consumption, no surge—nothing. His grin faltered into confusion.
Falira let out a sharp, frustrated hiss and snatched her hand back as if she had been scalded. She looked furious.
"What is it?" Projo asked. "It worked, didn't it?"
"No, you fool, it didn't work!" she snapped, pushing her chair back. "That wasn't you, Projo. That was me."
She ran a hand through her hair, glaring at the small flame as though it mocked her.
"My focus, my own Mana, my intent—I overpowered the test. I was supposed to be a passive participant, not a primary actor."
"Oh," Projo said in a small voice, and his hand slipped from the table. "I'm sorry."
The quiet apology seemed to suck the anger right out of the room.
Falira's shoulders sagged and her fists loosened. She ran a hand through her hair again, not in anger this time, but in defeat.
"It is not your fault," she said at last. "The error was mine. The protocol was flawed."
She lowered herself back into her chair, eyes fixed on the candle's steady flame. When she looked up, he saw cold calculation.
"The failure is... informative," she murmured. "It confirms the disparity in our latent power. My own... output... is a significant variable that must be suppressed for future trials."
She looked back at the flame, a quiet but determined expression on her face. "We will try again. But first, I need to devise a method to... quiet... my own influence."
"That sounds useful!" Projo said, grasping at hope. "How can I help?"
Projo's optimism hung in the air for a moment, bright and clumsy.
Falira looked at him, her expression baffled, as if he'd just offered to help her solve a complex equation by hitting it with a hammer.
"You?" she asked, dripping with an almost pitying condescension. "This is not a problem of brute force, Projo. It is a matter of internal calibration. Of arcane discipline."
She turned away, her focus already directed inward. "I need to meditate. To center my own Mana, to erect a kind of internal ward that dampens my active output without severing my channels entirely. It is a delicate, intricate process."
She glanced back at him, eyes sharp and dismissive. "You can help by... be patient. You can be the control. The constant. Don't pace. Don't try to... spontaneously generate puddles of water."
She gestured to the chair opposite her. "Just sit. And let me think."
Projo's hopeful grin wilted. He let out a quiet sigh, nodded, and reached for the Compendium of Monstrous Anatomy, cracking it open to stare at a diagram of a Cliff Drake.
Falira, satisfied, closed her eyes, and her breathing grew slow, her hands resting palms-up on her knees. The tower fell silent—no longer angry, but stifling all the same.
The morning crawled by while Projo stared at the same diagram of a Cliff Drake's skeletal structure, the words blurring into meaningless squiggles. Energy itched under his skin, begging to be burned, while Falira might as well have been carved from stone. He knew this was her work, but it felt like a waste of a perfectly good day.
At last, hunger gave him an excuse. He rose, careful not to disturb her, tore off bread and cheese, and set a plate by her elbow. He took a similar helping for himself, quietly buckled on his sword belt and slipped outside.
The cool, salty air was a welcome shock after the stale quiet within. He didn't head for the town, but turned north, his boots finding the cliff path leading to the secluded ledge.
It was just as he'd left it, a lonely, wind-scoured platform against the roaring sea. He stripped off his shirt, embracing the cold bite of the wind on his skin. Then he worked—lifting, hauling, grinding his muscles until they burned with honest effort. The sweat, the ache, the strain—it all bled out the restless energy Falira's silence had left behind.
When his body was trembling and slick with sweat, he drew the longsword. He heard her voice again: You swing it like a sledgehammer.
She was right.
He started slowly, moving through the clumsy forms he had practiced before. Thrust. Cut. Parry. He focused on balance, on letting his hips drive the blade, on feeling the weapon as something more than a heavy club.
For a long time, the only sound was the dull whoosh of the blade cutting through the air and the constant thunder of the waves below. Then, at last, it happened—a perfect horizontal cut, the edge aligned just so. The blade sang, a high, clear shiiing that cut through the roar of the sea for a fraction of a second.
A fierce grin split his face. He'd found the note. Now he just had to learn the song.
By evening, his sweat cooled in the breeze, muscles heavy with a good ache. Shirt slung over one shoulder and sword at his hip, Projo started the long walk back to the tower—steady, tired, and more at peace than he'd been in days.
The path wound down from the high ledge, hugging the cliffside. As Projo rounded a bend, he spotted the same sheltered outcropping below. The fisherman was still there—silent, patient, a single figure against the endless grey sea. His basket looked a little fuller than the last time.
Something stirred in Projo, an old instinct he hadn't felt in years, urging him once more down the goat path.
Loose stones rattled under his boots as he descended, and he stopped a respectful distance away. "Good evening," he called over the surf.
The old man grunted. "Evenin'."
"My name's Projo," he offered.
The fisherman didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed on the water until, finally, he rasped, "Kael."
Projo lingered in the silence, letting it stretch. "I was wondering," he said carefully, "I don't suppose... would you mind if I came and fished with you sometime? I've never learned how."
Kael turned his head, his face weathered with leathery wrinkles. He squinted, eyes weighing Projo up and down.
"A man with a blade like that," he growled, "usually has better things to do than tangle lines."
Projo looked at his calloused palms, then at the pole bending with the sea. "A sword's for taking," he said quietly. "A fishing line... that's for making. I've spent my life making things. I miss it."
The simple, honest answer seemed to land with the old fisherman, and Kael studied him for a long moment, gulls crying overhead. Then, at last, he laughed once, gave a slow nod, and turned back to the water.
"Sunrise," he muttered. "Tide's best then. Don't be late. And don't scare the fish."
It wasn't a warm invitation, but it was an acceptance.
A small, genuine smile touched Projo's lips. "Thank you, Kael."
He climbed back to the main path, a quiet sense of victory settling in his chest. It wasn't the adrenaline-fueled triumph of a battle won, but something smaller and steadier. The walk back was quiet, and the smile stayed on his face the entire way.
His life seemed to grow more complicated with every passing day. But tomorrow, his day would begin with something simple:
At sunrise, he would learn how to fish.