The First Weight That Stayed

Chapter 9 – The First Weight That Stayed

Several weeks passed after Zio returned from the city.

There was no single clear moment when the days began to feel different. Morning still came as usual. The dirt road was still cold beneath his feet. The forge fire was still lit before the sun fully rose.

Zio returned to his routine.

He woke earlier than before. His steps were no longer rushed, but neither had they slowed. When he walked long distances, his breathing no longer broke apart as it once had. His body moved with the distance, not against it.

He rarely thought of Ravenhold consciously. No images surfaced without reason. And yet, something from that place remained. The way he paused before moving. The way he stood without constantly shifting his weight.

The village had not changed.

The workshop still stood. The forest remained quiet in the same places.

Zio walked along the forest’s edge with a different rhythm.

His old shoes pressed into the damp earth without excess sound. When the path sloped downward, he lowered his body slightly, knees bending, then rose again without losing cadence. His breathing stayed short and steady.

He passed exposed tree roots without jumping. One step angled, a slight tilt of the shoulder, then straight again. The strap at his waist did not shift.

When he stopped, he stopped completely. There was no residual motion. When he moved again, the first step merged with the next without adjustment.

A thin layer of sweat formed at his temples. His hands did not tremble as he tightened the wrap around his wrist. His shoulders loosened on their own afterward.

Zio stepped deeper into the forest without changing speed.

He found tracks in the soft ground near a narrow stream.

The tracks were shallow. Their direction was clear. He crouched briefly, touched the soil with two fingers, then stood again without haste.

He followed the trail from the side, not directly behind it. His steps cut across the path, keeping distance. When the wind shifted, he stopped and waited before moving again.

The tracks led him forward several dozen steps before something felt wrong.
The spacing between prints widened too suddenly.

The ground here was harder. Leaves lay undisturbed where drag marks should have been.

Zio slowed, then stopped completely.

He tilted his head slightly, not to look at the tracks, but to listen.

These tracks were older.

He stepped backward along his own trail, careful not to press new signs into the ground. Near a bend in the stream, he found fresher tracks branching off at an angle, partially hidden by broken grass and damp leaves.

Zio adjusted his direction without irritation and continued.

The deer appeared among slender tree trunks.

It did not move quickly. Its head was lowered, ears lifting now and then. Far enough that it could not catch his scent. Close enough that he did not need to advance.

Zio lowered his body. The bow was already in his hand.

He did not hold his breath. He only slowed it.

He waited for the deer to take one more step.

Zio shifted left, descending along a lower contour of ground. Speed came from angle, not from his feet. The deer’s escape route was visible through still-moving leaves and freshly pressed tracks.

When the animal slowed to adjust its direction, Zio was already on the unguarded side.

His body aligned. Zio drew the bow.

The arrow entered without sound.

The deer’s body reacted before sound could follow. A sharp intake of breath that never finished. Muscles tensed once, then failed.

The deer jerked once, then lost balance. Its legs slipped on the damp ground. Its breath cut off before it could turn into a cry.

Zio did not approach immediately.

He waited a few moments.

Only after the body was completely still did he step forward and pull the arrow free in a single clean motion. Blood did not spray. It flowed thinly along the grain of the soil.

He crouched and began processing the kill.

The knife moved calmly. Hide opened. Tendons were cut cleanly. The rhythm remained steady, without unnecessary pauses.

The ground beneath the carcass shifted as weight released unevenly. Zio adjusted his footing, placing one knee farther outward to keep balance. His boot slid slightly on the wet earth before he corrected it.

He did not speed up. The body settled. The work continued.

Midway through the work, his chest felt different.

Not pain. Not tightness.

Like a calm pressure forming slowly, then settling. Each breath felt slightly heavier than before. Not enough to stop him, but clear enough to notice.

Zio paused for a moment, knife still in hand.

The pressure did not fade. Nor did it grow.

He continued.

When everything was finished, Zio tied the carcass and slung it over his shoulder.

His steps were steady as he walked home. The forest floor no longer slowed him. Roots and stones were crossed without needing to lower himself for long.

As the forest began to open, the ground beneath his feet gradually hardened. Grass grew shorter. Old tracks overlapped one another, marking paths frequently used by villagers. The smell of woodsmoke drifted in, faint but familiar.

A few wooden houses stood unevenly in the distance. Smoke rose from low chimneys. The sound of a hammer echoed softly, followed by brief laughter that quickly faded.

Zio passed two men carrying sacks of grain. One of them glanced at his shoulder, his eyes lingering briefly on the bound carcass.

“Heh,” he muttered softly, more to his companion than to Zio.

Zio gave a short nod without stopping.

A child near the road halted mid-step, staring openly before being pulled away by an older sibling. Someone farther down called toward the workshop, their voice casual, as if noting something ordinary.

Near the well, an elderly woman was drawing water. The bucket tapped softly against stone. She looked up as Zio passed.

“Home early,” she said.

“Yes,” Zio replied.

She gave a faint smile. “The forest treated you kindly today.”

Zio did not answer and continued walking.

When he reached Trod’s workshop, Martha was already there. Her gaze swept over Zio from head to toe.

“You’re not hurt?” she asked.

“No, Aunt,” Zio replied briefly.

Martha nodded. “If one day you meet game that’s hard to take down, don’t force it. Not everyone has to come home carrying something. What matters is that you return.”

Her eyes lingered a moment longer than usual, as if weighing something she could not fully name. Then she reached out and adjusted the strap on Zio’s shoulder, small and practiced.

Zio nodded.

Not long after, Trod came out of the workshop. His gaze was not cold. More like someone looking at the result of a long process.

“Put it there,” he said, pointing to the cutting table. “I’ll handle it. You rest.”

Zio went to the well to clean himself. Martha went inside to prepare a bowl of food and a cup to drink.

Outside, the sounds of the village continued. Laughter. Doors closing. Footsteps passing without pause.

Inside the house, Zio ate slowly, without haste.

That day ended without anything that needed celebrating.