No one saw Ivaline come down from the Brave’s room that night.

  That alone was enough.

  In a frontier town, absence was louder than presence.

  And imagination filled silence faster than truth ever could.

  A Brave.

  A child.

  A closed door.

  The order of those words changed nothing.

  Gossip did not care for sequence — only implication.

  By the time dawn thinned the darkness, the inn’s dining hall was already thick with murmurs. Not loud enough to be confronted. Not quiet enough to be ignored. Conversations bent away when footsteps passed. Eyes lingered a second too long before snapping back to bowls and cups.

  They came down together.

  Ivaline descended first, one careful step at a time. Her movements were light, almost weightless — but unsteady in a way only those who knew her well would notice. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, blinking slower than usual, lashes heavy as if sleep had never fully claimed her.

  Ray followed shortly after.

  His hair was uncombed. His armor loosened, straps undone. His shoulders were stiff, posture imperfect — the unmistakable soreness of someone who had slept on the floor without rest.

  The picture assembled itself.

  Ray noticed none of it.

  “Food,” he said plainly, raising a hand toward the counter.

  “Something with nutrients. High recovery.”

  The waiter froze for half a breath.

  The bar owner’s eyebrow twitched — not upward, but inward, as if reconsidering several life choices at once.

  A plate arrived quickly. Not tavern fare, but something closer to care: warm broth, sliced meat, bread torn soft by steam, fruit cut small enough for a child’s hands. Thoughtful. Measured.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  To Ray, the logic was obvious.

  Yesterday’s training had pushed her past her limits. Recovery mattered.

  To everyone else?

  The conclusions wrote themselves.

  They ate in silence.

  Ray watched Ivaline eat — not to rush her, not hovering, not correcting her pace. Just observing. Counting bites. Waiting for the slight tension in her shoulders to ease, for her grip on the spoon to steady.

  When she finished enough to stand without sway, he nodded once.

  “Go to work,” he said.

  “I’ll prepare the afternoon lesson.”

  “Umu.”

  She slipped off her stool and left, small figure threading its way through the room beneath the weight of a hundred unspoken rumors. The door closed behind her with a sound far softer than the things it sealed in place.

  Ray returned to his room.

  Already, his thoughts were elsewhere — drills, corrections, angles of approach, mistakes she could not afford to repeat. Time was short. Five days. Less, now. He needed to compress years of survival into something an eight-year-old body could endure without breaking.

  He did not hear the muttering behind his back.

  At Edwyn’s bakery, flour dusted the air as usual, clinging to warmth and skin alike.

  Edwyn paused when he saw her.

  Not because of rumors — those had already reached him — but because something about her posture was… quieter than normal.

  “Did something happen last night?” he asked.

  Ivaline explained.

  Monotone.

  Precise.

  Chronological.

  No embellishment.

  No shame.

  No attempt to soften or hide anything.

  She spoke of exhaustion. Of training. Of sleeping because she could not stay awake.

  Nothing more.

  By the time she finished, Edwyn’s trembling hands stilled. He stood there for a long moment, fingers pressing into dough as if grounding himself. Then he exhaled slowly and turned back to the workbench.

  “…Alright,” he said.

  “Let’s work.”

  The ovens warmed.

  The rhythm returned.

  Knead. Fold. Turn.

  Routine reclaimed its space, as it always did.

  Later, Ray arrived to escort her.

  Brief. Efficient.

  A few quiet words about what she would learn that afternoon. A correction she should remember. A reminder about foot placement. No lingering. No softness.

  Then he left her at Corvix’s dye shop.

  Corvix listened as he always did.

  Minimal questions.

  Short answers.

  He asked about the night.

  She answered.

  That was enough.

  The ledgers reopened. The vats stirred. Fabric dipped and rose, color blooming where none had existed moments before. Work moved forward, unbothered by rumor.

  But when her shift ended — and the Brave appeared again to escort her away —

  Corvix’s eyes narrowed.

  He did not raise his voice.

  He did not step forward.

  He merely gestured to one of his men.

  “Watch her,” he said.

  “From a distance.”

  The man hesitated.

  “…The Brave—”

  “From. A. Distance.”

  Corvix returned to his work, expression calm, fingers steady on the cloth submerged in dye.

  A snake watching its egg.