The Flow That Doesn’t Stop

Chapter 7 - The Flow That Doesn’t Stop

They passed through the gate without slowing.

There was no line and no pause for inspection. The guards stood off to the side of the road, watching the flow rather than controlling it. A glance at the cart, a brief look at Trod, and their attention moved on.

Inside, the sound changed first.

Iron rang against stone somewhere deeper in the city. Hooves struck a harder road, sharper than packed earth, the rhythm quicker and less forgiving. Wheels no longer sank slightly with each turn. They rolled cleanly, the vibration traveling straight through the frame of the cart.

The vibration carried up through the cart and settled in Zio’s jaw.

The air was different here. Oil sat heavy beneath everything else. Hot metal. Cooked grain. Too many scents layered together, none strong enough to claim the space on their own. Zio took a deeper breath than he meant to, then another.

The road narrowed as they moved in. Buildings pressed closer on either side, stone replacing wood, doorways open and occupied. People stepped aside without stopping, already reading the cart’s line and adjusting their own paths around it.

No one looked twice.

Zio found his pace slipping, just enough that he had to correct it.

In Greyhollow, a cart arriving drew attention, even if no one spoke. Here, the cart kept moving, folded into the flow without friction.

Trod guided the horse with short, economical pulls. He did not slow until the road widened into a side lane crowded with parked wagons. He angled the cart into an open space, close enough to the curb that the wheel nearly brushed stone.

The horse snorted once and settled.

Trod stepped down first.

His boots struck stone with a dull, final sound. He checked the wheel, the harness, how close the cart sat to the moving line of wagons, then reached up and loosened the reins.

Zio followed.

He climbed down more carefully than he needed to, one hand braced against the side of the cart. Stone met his boots without any give. Too solid. Too even.

He stood still for half a breath longer than usual.

The city moved around him.

A pair of carts passed close enough that he could feel the air shift against his sleeves. Someone laughed nearby, cut short by the clang of metal on metal. A voice called out a price, carried just far enough to reach him.

Trod was already securing the cart.

“Stay close,” he said, not looking back.

Zio nodded, even though Trod couldn’t see it.

He took one step forward, then another, adjusting his pace to match Trod’s without thinking about it. Half a step behind. Close enough to feel the movement of the city through the man in front of him.

People flowed around them without slowing. A cart crossed their path. Someone brushed past Zio’s shoulder and was already gone.

No one made room.

Zio walked half a step behind Trod.

It was not something he decided. His body adjusted on its own, settling into a place where he could watch without being noticed, where following did not mean getting in the way.

From there, the city made more sense.

People carried weapons openly, but not like they expected to use them.

A short blade rested loose at a man’s hip, the strap worn smooth from habit rather than readiness. A woman passed with a spear slung across her back, the point wrapped, dulled by cloth.

No hands hovered near hilts. No eyes searched the crowd.

Here, weapons stayed where they belonged.

Voices moved faster than footsteps.

Merchants spoke in clipped bursts, prices delivered without flourish, questions answered before they were fully asked. Words overlapped without colliding. No one waited to be heard.

They spoke and moved at the same time.

Guards stood where the roads narrowed.

Their eyes moved, then moved on.

Zio felt it brush against him once.

Not a look that lingered, not suspicion, just a brief measure taken and dismissed. Boy. Light. Walking with a craftsman. The flow did not change.

The ground echoed differently beneath his steps.

Stone returned sound without delay. Each footfall came back to him, sharp and clean.

He adjusted without thinking, shortening his stride, placing his weight more carefully than he did on packed earth.

Trod did not comment.

At a corner, a group spilled from a doorway laughing, their voices cutting across the street. They parted around Trod instinctively, reforming behind him without irritation. Zio slipped through the space left in their wake, unnoticed.

In Greyhollow, being seen was unavoidable.

Here, it was not.

The first stop was a metal stall set back from the main road.

There was no signboard, only rows of ingots stacked by size and shade, each marked with a shallow notch instead of a name. The seller did not look up when Trod approached. His hands stayed busy, making small corrections to a scale that was already level.

Trod named what he needed. Short. Exact.

The seller reached without asking, pulling two bars free and setting them on the stone counter. Metal met stone with a dull sound that carried.

Zio watched the exchange from the side.

He followed the motion without thinking, then realized his breathing had gone shallow again.

He noted how little was said. No greetings. No assurances of quality. The weight was checked once, the scale settling almost immediately. The seller named a price without looking up.

Trod countered with a number just as flat.

They did not argue. The price shifted once. Then again, by less than Zio expected. It settled in the middle, close enough to what Zio had seen Trod pay before.

Trod gestured to Zio.

Zio stepped forward and counted out the coins. His fingers moved carefully, not from uncertainty, but to stay precise amid the noise and movement around him. He checked the count twice before handing them over.

The seller nodded. The metal was wrapped. The exchange ended.

They moved on before the counter had cooled.

The next stops followed the same rhythm as the first.

Small tools. Replacement parts. Things that did not look important on their own, but added weight quickly when stacked together. Each purchase was brief. Each price different. Zio kept track in his head, adjusting the total as they went.

By the third stall, his shoulders had begun to ache.

Not from carrying anything yet, but from standing too long, from keeping his breathing measured while the city pressed in around him. He shifted his weight once, then again, careful not to draw attention.

Trod noticed without turning.

“Sit,” he said.

Zio hesitated, then lowered himself onto the edge of a low stone curb near the cart. The cold of it bled through his clothes immediately. He let it. The shock helped him steady his breath.

From there, he watched the city move past.

People passed close enough that he could hear fragments of conversation. Prices. Complaints. Directions given and forgotten. None of it lingered. The city carried everything forward, whether anyone held onto it or not.

When Trod returned, he handed Zio a small wrapped bundle.

“Hold this.”

Zio took it and nodded. The weight was modest, but real. Enough to remind him he was still part of the work.

They finished the last purchase as the light shifted, the sun no longer directly overhead.

The cart was fuller now. Heavier.

Zio stood again when they were done. His legs protested, briefly, then complied.

Nothing about the errand felt important.

That was what made it tiring.

They did not go looking for it.

The building stood a little apart from the others, set back from the road just enough to feel intentional. Its walls were stone like the rest of Ravenhold, but cleaner, the lines sharper. The entrance faced the street without decoration, without invitation.

Zio noticed it only because people moved differently around it.

They slowed, just slightly.

Not out of fear. Not respect.

Something closer to habit.

A symbol was carved beside the door.

Simple. Geometric. Worn smooth at the edges where too many hands had brushed past it. Zio could not tell what it meant. He only knew it did not belong to a shop.

Men and women went in and out without ceremony. Some carried weapons openly. Others wore none at all. No one lingered. No one argued.

A notice board stood nearby.

Wooden, broad, crowded with papers layered over older ones. Ink marks. Numbers. Names Zio did not recognize. He couldn’t read them from where he stood.

He stayed where he was.

Trod noticed where his attention had gone.

“Not our business,” he said.

Zio looked away immediately.

They passed without slowing. The cart wheels kept their pace. The sound of the city swallowed the moment whole.

As the building slipped behind them, Zio carried the impression with him.

It wasn’t curiosity sharp enough to turn his head or ask questions.

Only the sense that this was a place where things were handled before they needed explaining.

The disturbance started somewhere ahead.

Not close. Not loud. Just enough to bend the flow of people for a moment. Voices lifted, then overlapped, sharp but controlled. The sound traveled down the street, breaking apart as it went.

Zio stopped walking without meaning to.

Across the road, a small knot of people had formed. Two men stood too close to each other, shoulders squared, words pressed tight between clenched jaws. One of them had dropped a crate. Grain spilled across the stone, scattering under passing feet.

No one shouted.

A pair of guards moved in from opposite sides. Not running. Not rushing. Their steps were measured, practiced. One spoke quietly. The other placed a hand on the nearer man’s arm, not gripping, just there.

The men stepped apart.

One bent to gather the spilled grain, muttering something Zio couldn’t hear. A few coins changed hands. The guards stayed until the crate was righted, then melted back into the street.

The road filled in again.

People resumed their paths as if nothing had happened. Carts rolled on. Voices dropped back into their usual layers.

Zio let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“This happens a lot,” he said before he thought better of it.

Trod didn’t look over. “Enough that no one makes a story out of it.”

They continued walking.

Behind them, the street had already forgotten.

They passed a stone building set slightly back from the road.

At first, it looked no different from the rest.

The stone showed the same wear as the others, the pillars smoothed by use rather than care.

The entrance stood open, wide enough that people passed through without slowing.

Zio noticed the people.

Not how many of them there were, but how they moved.

Those going in did not hurry. Those coming out did not slow once they crossed the threshold. Nothing about their movement drew attention, yet there was a steadiness to it that didn’t quite match the rest of the street.

A man stood near the doorway.

He had stepped aside, leaving room without quite giving it up.

His weight rested on one leg, arms loose at his sides.

People adjusted around him without looking, their steps shifting enough to pass.

No one brushed against him.

Zio slowed before he realized he had.

On the wall beside the entrance, a symbol was cut into the stone.

The lines were clean, worn only at the edges. It wasn’t decorative.

He didn’t recognize it. That unsettled him more than it should have.

For a moment, his breath caught.

Then it didn’t.

“Keep moving,” Trod said.

It wasn’t a warning. Zio heard it the same way he heard instructions at the forge.

He looked away.

A few steps later, the sensation was gone.

The building slipped back into the street, its shape broken apart by carts, voices, and stone.

Zio couldn’t have named what he’d noticed.

Only that he didn’t forget it.

The cart was heavier when they returned to it.

Bundles of metal, wrapped tools, sacks tied tight and wedged carefully into place. Trod checked each strap once, then again, tugging until the wood creaked in protest.

“Enough,” he said to himself.

Zio handed up the last package. His arms shook slightly as he let go, the weight lingering even after it left his hands. He stepped back and wiped his palms against his trousers.

The street had begun to change.

Shadows stretched longer between buildings. The noise hadn’t faded, but it shifted, voices growing fewer and more deliberate, hooves slowing as traffic thinned. Lanterns were being lit, one by one, their glow dull against the stone.

Trod climbed onto the cart and took the reins.

“Up,” he said.

Zio followed, settling onto the wooden bench. The cart lurched as the horse moved, wheels biting into the harder road.

They passed the same streets again, though they felt narrower now. Not because the city pressed in, but because Zio had stopped trying to take it all in.

At the gate, there was still no pause.

The guards barely glanced their way. A loaded cart leaving the city was as unremarkable as one entering it.

Stone gave way to packed earth. The sound changed back. Softer. Slower.

Ravenhold didn’t announce their departure any more than it had their arrival.

Zio turned once, just enough to see the line of rooftops and the gate shrinking behind them.

Relief didn’t come. Neither did loss.

Only the quiet sense that staying here would have asked more than his body could give.

The road carried them onward.

Packed earth softened the sound of the wheels.

Fields replaced stone. Trees stood farther apart. The wind carried fewer smells, thinner and easier to separate. With every step away from Ravenhold, the world seemed to loosen its grip.

Zio leaned back against the side of the cart.

His body felt heavier than it had that morning. Not from injury, not from pain, but from something like overuse. His breathing slowed on its own, careful and measured, as if he were unconsciously rationing it.

He closed his eyes.

The city lingered behind his thoughts. Not as a place, but as a sensation. The weight of sound. The way people moved without looking back. How easily the world there continued, regardless of who passed through it.

Greyhollow would feel smaller after this.

That thought didn’t frighten him.

What unsettled him was something else. A quiet understanding he didn’t yet have words for.

If he stayed longer, if he tried to keep pace with that place, his body would have failed him long before his will did.

Zio rested his head against the wood and let the cart’s rhythm carry him.

There was no promise forming in his chest.

No oath. No plan.

Only a simple recognition, settling without urgency.

Not today.

The road led north, and the city faded behind them, already returning to its own noise.