Chapter Six – Where the Doctrine Does Not Look
Part Three – The Village That Doesn't Hum
The wind changed when they neared the outskirts.
It didn't howl or bite—it slowed. Like breath being held. The forest thinned into stonework and mudbrick, fencing barely tall enough to mark a border, and fields of broken wheat that had grown sideways from last season's Riftburn storms. A border village—Doctrine-aligned, but mostly ignored.
It had no name. None that the Doctrine used, at least. The villagers still called it Tareth Hollow, though no one knew why. Some said it used to hum with music before the memory war. Others said it never had.
Now it didn't hum at all.
Zephryn walked a pace behind the others, boots muted on the gravel road. His steps didn't echo, but they left weight. Children peeked from shattered windows, eyes round. Elders leaned from doorways. No one bowed. No one called out. But they stared like they knew.
Not who he was.
What he carried.
Kaelen glanced back once. Zephryn's face was half-lit by dusk, half-shadowed by the folds of his hood. There was something about the way his gaze shifted—not restless, but trained. He was watching rooftops. Corners. Doorframes. Not for enemies—for memories.
Selka adjusted the leather strap on her shoulder, gaze narrowing. "Don't say anything," she murmured low to Yolti. "Not yet."
Yolti nodded, but it was shaky.
Doctrine presence was light here. A half-built tower marked the village's edge—a listening post, barely operational. Two mirror agents stood outside it in thin armor, hands behind their backs. They didn't speak as the group passed, but one of them tilted his head as Zephryn passed.
Noticed something.
Didn't say it.
Not yet.
⸻
They were given an old guest cabin to rest in—stone hearth, rusted cauldron, walls soaked with old smoke. It smelled like wet clay and forgotten letters. The Doctrine kept it for field agents, but rarely used it. The elder in charge handed Selka a carved key, then disappeared.
Zephryn entered last. He stood at the threshold for a moment.
Then crossed it.
Selka tossed her cloak onto the far bench. Yolti dropped her satchel with a sigh and curled into the floor mat, boots still on. Kaelen went to the hearth and started stacking dry bark into the pit. He didn't speak.
Zephryn didn't sit. He moved to the far window. Looked out at the empty fields beyond.
"We're close to the Lyceum," Selka said, not turning. "Another two days if we walk straight."
Zephryn didn't reply.
"You could come back with us," Yolti tried. "Even just for a day. See the halls. See what's left."
Zephryn lowered his eyes. "I don't need to see it."
Yolti hesitated. "…Why not?"
"Because I never forgot it."
Selka stood straighter, hands clasped behind her back like she used to when they were students—when posture mattered, when silence could be mistaken for discipline. "Then why stay in the shadow?"
Zephryn finally turned.
His face was calm. Not blank—contained. As if every expression had to pass through fire before it reached the surface.
"Because the shadow's where the truth hid first."
Kaelen stopped stacking the firewood. "What do you mean?"
But a knock sounded on the door before Zephryn could answer.
Three raps. Slow. Precise.
Selka moved first. She opened it only partway. The mirror agent from before stood outside, face unreadable beneath the shimmer of a half-formed veil mask.
"You didn't report your arrival," he said. "We detected abnormal pulse flares on approach."
Selka stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.
Yolti moved toward the window but paused. Kaelen sat back against the hearth and closed his eyes.
Zephryn returned to the far wall and pressed two fingers against a small crack in the stone. Something about the texture made his breath still. The wall was cold. Too cold.
Outside, Selka's voice remained steady. "The Riftborn attacks were real. But the masked figure? It wasn't who we thought."
The agent asked something inaudible.
Her answer came clearer.
"It wasn't Zephryn."
Inside, Kaelen opened one eye.
Zephryn didn't react. But Yolti turned fully toward him.
"You heard that, right?"
He nodded. "She's protecting me."
Kaelen stood.
"Why not just face them?" he asked, tone sharp. "The Doctrine. The Lyceum. If you've been alive this whole time—if you're still fighting, still carrying her blade—then why not face them and end this charade?"
Zephryn's eyes found his.
"Because I remember what they did."
Kaelen blinked.
"…What do you mean?"
Zephryn didn't speak again. Instead, he reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled something out—a scrap of parchment. Not Doctrine-issued. Not Choir-sealed. Old. Weathered.
He set it on the floor.
Yolti leaned forward. "What is it?"
Zephryn stepped back, letting the firelight hit it.
A page of music.
Not written in words, but resonance glyphs—loops and fractures drawn like song echoes, a harmonic line severed midway through.
Selka reentered, closing the door behind her with quiet care. She paused when she saw the page on the floor.
"…Where did you get that?"
Zephryn looked at her for a long moment.
"Solara left it for me."
"No one's seen harmonic glyphs like this since the Fracture Age," Selka whispered.
Kaelen stepped closer. "That's not a Doctrine relic."
"No," Zephryn said. "It's a memory that doesn't want to be found."
Outside, the wind picked up again. But no trees bent.
⸻
Later that night, long after the fire dimmed, Zephryn stood at the edge of the village.
He hadn't said a word in over an hour. He hadn't moved for most of it. But when he stepped outside, the ground seemed to listen.
The stars above the Veil were scattered, dimmer than he remembered. Maybe the Veil was thinning again. Or maybe his eyes had changed.
He heard Kaelen before he saw him.
"I followed you once," Kaelen said behind him. "Six years ago. After the trial fire. I thought I saw your cloak."
Zephryn didn't turn. "You did."
"You let me believe it was a dream."
"It had to be."
Kaelen stepped beside him. His voice shook—not from fear, but from restraint. "Do you have any idea what it did to us? Not knowing if you were alive or ash?"
Zephryn said nothing.
"We could've found you."
"I couldn't be found."
Kaelen's hands tightened at his sides. "Then why let us see you now? Why let us remember you?"
Zephryn looked at him then, full-on. His eyes weren't cruel. They were tired. And underneath the tiredness, there was something else.
Resolve.
"Because I don't think I have much time left."
Kaelen froze.
"What do you—"
Zephryn reached into his sleeve and pulled out the mask. Not to wear it. Just to hold it. Its inside shimmered faintly with residue—Veilmark glow pulsing at odd intervals, like something beneath the surface wasn't syncing right.
"My glyph is… unstable," Zephryn said. "Not corrupted. Just wrong."
Kaelen stepped forward. "We can fix it. The Lyceum—"
"No," Zephryn said softly. "The Lyceum is where it began."
A pause.
Then—quiet as dust:
"If Solara trusted you… then I will too."
He pressed something into Kaelen's hand. A shard of crystal. Pale violet. Humming faintly.
Kaelen opened his mouth.
But Zephryn was already gone.