Fractures Beneath Calm

The city of Western Vale woke like an orchestra tuning its instruments—noisy, uneven, alive. The clang of iron shutters being lifted, the creak of wagons trundling along cobbled streets, hawkers shouting the day’s offers—all swelled into a symphony of commerce.

From their inn window, Shin watched as sunlight spilled over the spires and smoke-choked chimneys. The morning light gilded tiled rooftops and turned the river into a blade of molten gold slicing through the city. And yet, for all its brilliance, the view only pressed the weight of unease heavier onto his chest.

He rubbed his face, half-expecting to shake off the memory of the night before—the moment he’d seen Luneth slipping away into the shadows, her steps light, deliberate, as if she were not merely taking air but following some darker purpose. He hadn’t followed. He told himself it wasn’t his business. But his mind replayed the sight of her vanishing down the alley again and again, looping like a curse.

A knock at his door broke the reverie.

“Shin! Breakfast!” Hikari’s voice rang through.

Shin swallowed the dry taste in his mouth, forced a neutral tone. “Coming.”

The common room of the inn buzzed with travelers, mercenaries, and merchants alike. The smell of baked bread, meat stew, and strong ale—far too early for Shin’s stomach—clung thick in the air. The low murmur of voices was punctuated by bursts of laughter, the scrape of mugs on wood, the occasional bark of a dog curled near the hearth.

Their group had claimed a table near the corner. Hikari was already halfway through a plate, speaking animatedly with a young mercenary from another guild. Daelric sat stiff-backed, sipping tea with the air of someone who tolerated food only as necessity. And Luneth—

Shin’s eyes betrayed him. They kept drifting to her.

She laughed at something Hikari said, her voice bright, her gestures lively. To anyone watching, she was her usual self: cheerful, quick to tease, the spark that kept the group from sinking too deep into solemnity.

But Shin noticed what no one else seemed to. The faint paleness beneath her cheer. The way her right hand lingered against the rim of her cup, not holding it fully. And, when she thought no one watched, the smallest wince as she adjusted her grip. A strip of cloth bound her palm beneath her sleeve, almost invisible. Almost.

A cut.

His mind flashed back to the night—her silhouette disappearing into darkness, the faintest glint of silver when she raised her hand. A blade? Ritual? He shook his head. No. Don’t leap to conclusions.

Yet the image would not leave him: the way she slipped away with purpose, the secrecy that clung to her like smoke.

She caught him staring. For a moment, her gaze lingered. Her eyes—normally full of mirth—seemed colder, distant, like a lake concealing depths too dark to fathom. Then, as quickly as it came, she smiled. A bright, harmless smile. Shin looked down at his bowl, appetite lost.

“Shin,” Hikari nudged him with her elbow, “you’re quiet today. Still half-asleep?”

“Something like that,” he muttered.

“You should eat more,” she teased. “We’ve got a long day ahead. Guild wants us to report before noon.”

Daelric set his cup down with precise finality. “Discipline requires a clear mind. Lingering fatigue is a sign of poor preparation.”

“Not everyone’s a machine like you,” Hikari shot back, grinning.

The banter flowed, easy and ordinary. They teased Daelric for his seriousness, laughed when Hikari spilled crumbs down her shirt, and made guesses about what contracts the guild might throw their way next. On the surface, nothing was amiss.

Yet Shin remained half-drowned in silence. His mind tugged back to Luneth again and again, as though some instinct demanded he not look away. He caught details others missed: the way she avoided cutting her bread with her right hand, how her sleeve always seemed to slip just enough for her to tug it back quickly.

When she finally rose, brushing crumbs from her cloak, she announced, “I’ll head out to the market, get some supplies. Don’t wait for me if the guild calls first.”

Her voice was cheerful, casual. But Shin caught the way her left hand pressed subtly against her right wrist, hiding the bandaged palm.

He should ask. He should say something. But the words curdled in his throat.

Instead, he only nodded.

The streets of Western Vale swarmed like veins of a living beast. Merchants bellowed prices from stalls draped in silks, children darted between carts chasing stray dogs, smithies rang with the hammer’s endless rhythm. Perfumes and smoke mingled in the air—roasting chestnuts, horse dung, incense from shrines tucked between shops. A juggler balanced knives while a pickpocket slipped through the crowd unnoticed.

Shin kept his pace steady, but every corner, every alley seemed more alive than it should have been. The market cries struck his ears as discordant rather than merry; the smell of incense was suffocating instead of soothing. His nerves distorted the city into something too sharp, too vivid.

Above it all loomed the towers—watchful, shadow-casting, like the bones of giants rising against the sky.

Shin followed the others toward the guildhall, but his mind was fractured. Every echo of last night lingered: the shuffle of Luneth’s boots on stone, the hush of her breath as she slipped away.

He wondered—had she returned before dawn? Was she watching him even now, behind that mask of lighthearted cheer?

He hated this—this not knowing.

The guildhall of Western Vale was a fortress of wood and iron, its walls scarred with old battles. Inside, parchment and steel clashed in equal measure—clerks scratching away at ledgers beside warriors slamming down contracts, hunters bragging of kills while coin changed hands. Torches burned high despite the daylight, their smoke staining the rafters black.

Their party checked in, turned over proof of completed tasks. Hikari handled the talking, her energy masking Shin’s distraction.

He found his gaze wandering again, landing on Luneth.

Her sleeve had slipped slightly as she leaned over the counter, and for a brief second, Shin saw it clearly: the bandage, stained faintly with dried crimson. His stomach tightened.

He shouldn’t care this much. People got hurt. Wounds were normal. But this—this wasn’t from their last fight. He would have noticed.

It was something else. Something she chose to hide.

And the not knowing gnawed at him.

By midday, they were free. The group agreed to split for errands, to reconvene at the inn by sundown.

Hikari dragged Daelric to help her negotiate prices at the weapon stalls, claiming his stone face was useful for haggling. That left Shin alone, drifting through the market’s endless cacophony.

But he wasn’t shopping. His eyes scanned alleys, doorways, shadows. Searching. Always searching.

And then—he saw her.

Luneth.

Not at the stalls, not bartering for supplies as she’d claimed. No, she was slipping between two crowded streets, her cloak hood drawn up, steps quick, purposeful.

Shin’s breath caught.

For one reckless moment, his legs moved on their own, ready to follow.

But he stopped.

Last night he had hesitated. Today, again. Some part of him screamed that following her would unravel something he wasn’t ready to face.

So he stood rooted, watching as her form melted into the shadows of a side street, until the crowd swallowed her whole.

The rest of the afternoon stretched long and restless. Shin wandered aimlessly, pretending to look at wares he didn’t see, words from merchants washing over him unheard. A tanner tried to sell him boots, a bard pressed a pamphlet for an evening performance into his hand, a child tugged his sleeve begging for coin. He brushed them all off.

The city’s bustle only amplified the silence gnawing inside him. The laughter of strangers sounded distant, hollow. Every clink of coin, every shout at a stall seemed to carry a false brightness that only made his unease heavier.

By the time he returned to the inn, evening shadows stretched tall across the walls.

Their party gathered again at the table. Hikari returned triumphant with new blades, Daelric scowled about overspending, and Luneth—Luneth smiled, claiming she’d found rare herbs for their journey.

No one questioned her. No one noticed the faint redness at the edge of her bandage when she poured wine.

No one but Shin.

The night fell heavy over Western Vale.

Sleep eluded him. He lay in his narrow bed, staring at the wooden beams above, every creak of the inn settling like a whisper in his ear.

He thought of Luneth’s hand, the way her blood had stained the bandage. He thought of her slipping into shadows, twice now, and how her smile never quite reached her eyes. He thought of what he hadn’t seen—what she might be doing, even now, while he lay paralyzed in doubt.

The city outside murmured through the walls—distant laughter, the hooves of late riders, the clatter of shutters being bolted for the night. Somewhere, bells tolled the hour, each one deep enough to rattle his chest. At times Shin swore he heard footsteps in the hall, pausing just outside their door. He held his breath until the sound faded, uncertain if it had ever been real.

He turned on his side, but the unease stayed. It felt as though the city itself pulsed beneath him, the walls breathing, the floorboards echoing with invisible steps. Shadows seemed longer here than they should have been, creeping along the floor like living things.

And in the quiet, with only the city’s distant murmur to keep him company, Shin realized the truth:

It wasn’t just suspicion. It was fear.

Fear not of Luneth herself, but of the fracture opening between them. The sense that something vast and unseen moved beneath her mask, and that he was powerless to stop it.