The Weaver's Rest was quiet in the mornings — but not the kind of cozy, muffled quiet Ronell had grown used to. It was... drafty. The kind of silence that made footsteps echo too loudly.
She sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her boots, the worn laces stiff from the cold. May's side of the room was neatly made, untouched since early dawn — again.
Moore was curled in his blanket roll on the floor, groaning softly into his sleeve.
"No stew. No firewood. No blankets that don't scratch. I hate this place," he mumbled.
Ronell tugged her cloak tighter.
"I'll get something to eat."
She didn't expect a response. She didn't get one.She shut the door quietly behind her.
---
The city streets were still damp from night fog. Mist clung low over cobbles, and boots left shallow prints in puddles. Smoke curled up from chimneys, and the scent of roasting chestnuts mingled with drying leaves.
Ronell wandered toward the plaza, hoping the familiar food stall was open — the one May always dragged them to in summer.
It was. But crowded. Loud. Packed with children and workers and couples huddled under shawls.
She turned away.
A quieter path — past a corner tea vendor, past the temple's outer wall — led her to a modest café she hadn't noticed before.
And there, at a small table with two mugs and a half-eaten croissant, sat a familiar face.
The girl was older than Ronell remembered — not in years, but in posture. She wore a soft slate coat, her braid tucked into a scarf, fingers wrapped around a warm cup.
It took a second before they both recognized each other.
"You're one of Papa's spring birds," the girl said with a knowing smile. "Thought I might see you still fluttering around."
Ronell blinked. Then smiled.
"You worked the morning kitchen, didn't you?"
The girl laughed. "Guilty. Lina." She nodded to the seat across from her. "Sit. You look like you need something hot."
Ronell hesitated... then sat.
---
They talked. About weather. The inn. How autumn slowed things down. About how Papa always knew when someone was about to move on.
Lina sipped her drink.
"You always wore that cloak, I remember. All summer. Even when it was boiling."
Ronell looked down at it.
"May bought it for me."
"Mmh. Pretty gift. But... you ever dress for yourself?"
Ronell opened her mouth. Closed it. She didn't have an answer.
Lina grinned and stood, tugging her coat tight.
"C'mon. Tailor's cart is two streets over. Secondhand booth's better. You need something that says you."
---
They walked together, steam rising from cups in their hands.
At the cart, Ronell ran her fingers over scarves, gloves, threadbare coats. Her eyes caught on a woven scarf — light blue, flecked with silver. It reminded her of the canopy in spring.
She tried it on.
Lina tilted her head. "Better."
Ronell hesitated... then bought it.
"Maybe this is me," she said softly, looking into a tarnished mirror nailed to the stall's side.
"Getting there," Lina said with a wink.
---
With a satchel of warm bread and her new scarf wrapped tight, Ronell made her way back alone.
The streets weren't loud. The city wasn't bustling like summer. But somehow... she didn't mind the quiet today.
For once, she wasn't watching for May around every corner.She was just... walking. Present.
---
"She didn't feel lost exactly — just slightly unthreaded. But in a way that might, eventually, become something whole."
---
The courtyard was crisp with autumn air, the stone underfoot still damp from morning mist. Recruits sparred in pairs under instructor watch — laughter, effort, clashing wood.
Ronell was packing up her gear when the princess approached from behind.Not in uniform — but unmistakable. She moved like she owned the sky above the academy.
Her voice came light:
"That's new."
Ronell turned, blinking.
"Huh?"
The princess gestured to the scarf loosely wrapped around her neck — the soft blue one with flecks of silver.
"The scarf. Doesn't look like something May would pick."
Ronell touched the fabric instinctively.
"It's not. Someone else helped me choose it."
"Ah," the princess hummed, stepping closer. "A someone else."
She reached forward without asking — fingers brushing the edge of the scarf, adjusting the fold.
"Better like this. You should wear it proud. It suits you."
Ronell flushed but didn't pull away.
---
As they began walking slowly toward the outer gates, the princess tilted her head, voice soft and almost idle:
"She's always vanishing, that one. Your May."
Ronell stiffened just a little.
"She has things to do," she replied.
"Mm. Of course."A pause."But don't you ever wonder what those things are?"
Ronell didn't answer.
The princess's steps remained graceful, measured. But her eyes… never quite left Ronell's face.
"She's not your sister. Not your guardian. You don't owe her blind trust."
She turned toward Ronell again, walking backwards now — light on her feet.
"If she's hiding something…""Wouldn't you want to know?"
Ronell frowned. She wanted to brush it off, like always. But her fingers curled into the scarf.The one she had picked.The one that wasn't May's idea.
"She's never hurt me."
The princess smiled faintly.
"Yet."
---
They paused near the rack of wooden practice swords.
The princess reached out again — this time adjusting Ronell's belt. Her fingers brushed metal.
"You've been walking straighter lately," she said. "Less like a guard dog. More like a shadow."
Ronell looked at her.
"A shadow?"
"My shadow," the princess clarified. Then, teasing:"Little shadow. I like it."
Ronell looked away, unsure whether to be flattered or disturbed.Her scarf rustled faintly in the wind.
For just a second, she thought of Lina's words:
"You ever dress for yourself?"
Now she wasn't sure if she was.
---
The sun sat low behind the rising wall, casting long shadows across the outer market. Autumn wind carried the scent of roasted nuts, iron, and chilled stone.
Moore lingered near a corner stall, chewing something forgettable and watching the world move past.
He saw the kid before anyone else did.
Small. Barefoot. His tunic too thin for the cold. Eyes sharp from too much hunger and too little sleep.
Moore's brow furrowed.
The kid glanced left — then right — then slipped a roll into his coat.
The motion was fast. Nearly clean.
But not clean enough.
"Hey!" the baker shouted. "Thief!"
The street shifted. Shouts echoed. A few guards nearby straightened. Two shopkeepers surged forward, joined by others who'd been waiting to be angry at something.
The boy bolted — but he was small. Cornered fast.
By the time Moore moved, the crowd was already circling.
---
"Filthy brat—should've locked him up last time."
"One bite of bread and they think they own the city."
The boy trembled against the wall, arms up. His mouth opened, but no words came.
Moore stepped in.
Pushed past a heavyset man. Planted himself in front of the boy.
"Back off."
The crowd paused. Some recognized him — street scum, grown up with sharper shoulders. But still scum.
"This ain't your business."
Moore didn't blink.
"Yeah? Then take it up with me."
"You want someone to blame?""I've got history."
He looked over his shoulder at the boy.
"Go."
The kid hesitated, then ran.
"Get back here—!"
A meaty fist came down. Moore caught it halfway — then another hit him hard in the side. The air whooshed from his lungs.
A scuffle broke out — guards moved in at last, dragging people apart.
Someone cracked him across the jaw before it ended. Moore didn't fight back. Not really. Not this time.
He dropped to one knee, coughing — and laughing bitterly.
---
A guard — one who didn't hate him — helped him up.
"You idiot," she muttered. "What was the point?"
"He looked like me," Moore rasped. "That's enough."
---
The clinic was tucked at the edge of the merchant quarter, almost buried behind shuttered stalls and chipped stone. A faded sign swung above the door — no name, just the symbol of a thread-thin cross and a single drop of red.
Inside: quiet. Too quiet.
No scent of herbs. No chatter of assistants. No warmth.
Moore stood in the entryway, one hand pressed to his side, blood wetting the hem of his tunic. He expected a creaky old woman or a tired young healer wiping sweat from their brow.
What he got was silence. And a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a different world.
-
Tall. Pale as ash.His black hair was dyed darker at the ends, pulled into a low ponytail. A single lock fell in front of one eye — which didn't blink.
He wore a long white coat. Too pristine. Too tailored. His shoes didn't scuff the stone floor.
"Sit," the man said. Not unkind. But not kind either.
Moore hesitated. Sat.
The chair was cold.
-
The man didn't ask questions. He peeled back Moore's shirt, inspecting the bruises and broken skin with cold fingers. They lingered — not in concern, but calculation.
"You've been struck," he said plainly.
"Sharp eye," Moore muttered.
The man didn't smile. He dabbed the wound with something that burned. Hard.
Moore hissed. The man didn't flinch.
"Pain reminds us we're alive," he said, his voice flat. "You should thank the boy for that."
Moore froze.
"I didn't say it was a boy."
A beat passed.
The man finally blinked — once. Slowly.
"You didn't."
-
He turned away, writing something in a black book already filled with narrow, etched notes. The ink smelled metallic.
"People like you," the man said, not looking up, "tend to draw fire. You're built for it. Burnt, but standing."
"Is that a compliment?"
"No," the man replied. "Observation."
He turned back. His fingers curled around a length of gauze — but didn't hand it over.
"Tell me," he said, "how does it feel, pretending you're one of them?"
"One of who?"
"The ones with homes. Futures. Names people remember."
Moore stood abruptly, his chair scraping back. He was still dizzy. Still bleeding a little. But something about this man's presence was worse than any wound.
"I'll dress it myself."
"As you like." The man held out the bandage — but didn't move closer. "You'll bruise. Try not to make it worse."
-
As Moore took the cloth, their fingers brushed.
A chill slid up his spine.
Images—just flashes—burned in the back of Moore's skull: metal clamps. A silhouette behind glass. A child screaming in a too-bright room.
He blinked. The clinic was still. The man was watching.
"Careful out there," the man said softly. "Sometimes the herodies first."
Moore left without another word.
Outside, the street was loud with life again — but it felt miles away. He didn't breathe until he was halfway down the next alley.
He didn't look back.
But the sensation of those too-cold fingers wouldn't leave his skin for the rest of the night.
---
The forest glowed with late-autumn color — canopies of amber, crimson, and burnt orange rippled overhead like fire stitched into the sky. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in slow-moving gold, catching on drifting motes of dust and dandelion seed.
The scent of dry bark and sweet rot hung thick in the air. A recent rain left the moss damp beneath May's paws as she padded silently beneath the changing trees. Her black fur stood out against the copper carpet of fallen leaves — a sharp silhouette that darted through shafts of light and shadow.
Above, branches creaked gently in the wind. The hush was beautiful — and wrong.
The forest was too quiet.
Birdsong had thinned. Even the squirrels moved in skittish bursts, like prey aware of something watching.
May paused at the edge of a familiar glade — once a sacred space for Visionaries. Now, vines curled too tightly around stones. Once-bright blossoms sagged under pale mildew. The air held the same floral perfume as always… but beneath it, something sour.
A soft wind stirred the clearing. Leaves lifted and spiraled, slow as dancers — and then froze mid-air as a fox stepped into view.
Silver. Impossibly pristine. Eyes shut.
It sat at the far end of the glade, facing the still pool. Silent.
May approached, her black paws silent on the damp stone. She didn't speak — not yet. She shifted just once, slipping into her cat form, golden eyes reflecting the dying light. A sign of respect.
"You're late," the fox said.
Its eyes opened — pale and crystalline like frost. Not angry. But tired.
"A year," the fox continued. "That was the deal. Four seasons. One full circle."
"I needed more time."
"The woods grow darker, May."
The fox stood. A flick of its tail disturbed the leaves at its feet.
"Do you know what walks here now? They come as deer. As birds. Familiar. Harmless. Until you look twice."
"Corruption," May said.
"From your world, not ours. And now? Even I must stay hidden."
The pool behind them shimmered — water reflecting treetops split by red and gold. But in the center, the light warped. A shadow, not cast by anything, bloomed for half a second… then vanished.
"You're unraveling," the fox whispered.
With a shimmer, its form shifted — stretching upward into a tall figure cloaked in heavy robes. Hair white as bone. Face masked in half-shadow.
"They are remembering, aren't they?"
"Piece by piece."
"And the boy?"
"Still watching."
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the wind combing the tall grass.
"The longer you stall," the Visionary said, "the more it bleeds."
"I'm not stalling. I'm shielding them."
"From what? The truth? Or the pain that comes with it?"
May didn't answer.
Instead, she turned — fur brushing leaves, tail low — and melted back into black cat form. One golden eye glanced back at the masked Visionary.
"Buy them what time you can," the figure said.
May slipped into the woods, paws light over the crumbling trail of color. The leaves danced again in her wake — but this time, one or two fell up instead of down.
The forest watched her go.
And above the canopy, the sky darkened — slow, heavy, gray. It did not thunder. It simply promised rain.
---
The drizzle had been falling for nearly an hour — soft, steady, the kind of autumn rain that didn't chase people inside, just hushed them. Lanterns flickered dimly against the damp, their glow bending in puddles on the cobbled plaza.
Moore sat on the edge of an old stone fountain, shoulders hunched, rain freckling his shirt and seeping into the bandage at his brow. The linen was crooked — clearly adjusted by clumsy hands. He hadn't bothered to pull up his hood.
Ronell spotted him through the drifting curtain of rain and approached slowly, her boots scuffing wet leaves that clung to the edges of the plaza.
"You could've told someone," she said, voice gentle.
Moore didn't look up. "What, and ruin my dramatic reveal?"
His attempt at humor thudded against the quiet air. The droplets tapped softly on stone, on rooftops, on their clothes.
She didn't smile.
He glanced at her sidelong, then away. "It's not that bad."
"You're hurt."
Moore exhaled hard through his nose. "Some kid stole bread. Got grabbed. I stepped in. Ended up on the ground. You know. Hero stuff."
"Moore…"
That tone — quiet, careful — disarmed more than any lecture would.
He shifted, boots scraping against the wet stone, and finally muttered, "Okay, okay… I didn't exactly win."
He rubbed at his wrist, eyes still fixed forward.
"They hit me. I hit back. Someone threw a bottle. The kid ran. I think."
Ronell didn't say anything at first. She just sat beside him, the rain soft on their hair and shoulders, cloaking the silence between their breaths.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I dunno." He gave a small, tired shrug. "Didn't want it to sound… stupid. Or weak."
She tilted her head slightly. "You stepped in."
"So?"
"So that matters."
He gave a half-smile — more bitter than amused.
"You're the brave one. You wear armor. Train with a princess. Everyone sees you and thinks, 'She's someone.' I just look like the idiot who picked a fight in the rain."
Ronell shook her head. "You don't see yourself."
There was a pause — just the sound of rain dripping down the slanted tiles above them, and a crow somewhere in the distance calling once, then quiet.
"I saw you," she said softly. "I thought you were brave."
Moore's breath hitched slightly — just once. He didn't meet her eyes.
Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, wincing faintly at the pain.
"...I made up half the story. Didn't tell you everything."
Her gaze sharpened slightly, but she didn't press.
"I left out the part about the guy who stitched me up. Weird one. Tall. Cold. Knew things he shouldn't."
"Was he dangerous?"
Moore hesitated — then shook his head, too quickly. "Nah. Just… weird."
Ronell let the silence stretch.
She wouldn't push.
And maybe that's what made Moore feel worse.
They sat like that for a while — two silhouettes beneath the soft weeping of the clouds, steam rising faintly from the cobbles where the day's warmth was still escaping.
-
Ronell stood as if to go, brushing the damp from her sleeves. Moore stayed seated, elbows on knees, eyes low — until something caught his glance.
"…That new?" he asked, nodding vaguely toward the woven scarf wrapped around her neck.
Ronell blinked, then touched it self-consciously. "Oh. Yeah… someone from Papa's Roost helped me pick it out."
Moore scratched his cheek, awkward. "It, uh… suits you."
She looked at him.
A pause — not awkward, but soft. A little surprised. Grateful.
"Thanks."
He nodded like it didn't mean anything. Like it wasn't important.
But she smiled — just a little — and that made him look away.
---
By the time they returned to the inn, the sky had darkened to a cold gray bruise. The quiet rain had stopped, but the stone streets still glistened under the flickering lamplight. Wind curled around the buildings in long, uneven breaths — a voice too tired to speak.
The Weaver's Rest creaked as they stepped inside. The scent of old wood and ash from the hearth clung to the walls like memory. A candle burned low on the table. The room was the same as always — and yet, it felt emptier than it had that morning.
Ronell shrugged off her coat. The scarf remained, a soft comfort at her neck.
She glanced at the small table in the corner.
No note. No footprint. Not even the usual half-moved curtain that meant May had slipped through.
Moore flopped onto the edge of his cot, wincing as his ribs pressed against his side. "She'll turn up," he mumbled, loosening one boot. "She always does."
Ronell hesitated, her fingers resting lightly on the back of a chair.
"She didn't leave a note."
She said it softly. Not as an accusation — more like a fact she was trying not to feel.
The silence in the room stretched.
Moore didn't reply. He leaned back and exhaled.
Ronell turned to the window.
Outside, the wind spun fallen leaves into slow spirals beneath the street lanterns. A few drops from the eaves tapped against the glass, steady and cold.
She didn't say another word.
Just stood there, watching the wind move — and wondering how far it could carry someone before they disappeared.