Chapter 16: Don’t Know Why

Late at night, Seville finally settled into brief stillness after a day of noise and bustle.

Vaste sat at the table by the window, her back to the room. Her weapons and gloves lay spread before her, along with a bag of honey-roasted chestnuts Glaze had bought at the market that day. She was wiping down her cleaver with an oiled cloth—root to tip, over and over.

Her movements were unhurried but rhythmic. A habit built over many years: whenever there was downtime, she maintained her weapons, no matter how tired she was, no matter whether she was in an inn or out in the field. Every inch of the blade got wiped. Every rivet on the hilt got checked. If the scabbard mouth showed wear, she filed it smooth. Her hands knew the motions by muscle memory alone—no conscious thought required.

A creak came from behind her—the wooden door.

The inn room had no private bath, just a wooden folding screen in the corner, with a washbasin behind it. The innkeeper's daughter brought up buckets of hot water at intervals. Vaste had told Glaze to go first—her reasoning was practical: she had to clean her weapons, organize her potions, and do a dozen other things. By the time she finished, the water would have gone cold anyway.

Behind the screen came the soft sound of water, then wet footsteps on wooden floorboards. Vaste didn't turn. She was inspecting the cleaver's hilt—a small crack, not deep, but needing resin. She held the blade up to her eye, running her thumb along the crack's length.

"I'm done."

Vaste's fingers paused on the hilt for a moment, then continued. From the corner of her eye, she confirmed Glaze's position—by the screen, barefoot on the wood, steam rising slowly from behind her. She could see her ankles and a sliver of her calves, the skin faintly pink from the hot water.

Vaste pulled her gaze back to the blade. She didn't turn. Not deliberately avoiding—just the instinct she'd honed over the years: keep distance.

She knew some people felt uncomfortable with certain things, so she never let her eyes wander where they shouldn't. Though this girl didn't seem to mind, maintaining that boundary was simply how Vaste operated.

"Put your clothes on," she said, her tone as flat as ever.

"They're already on."

Vaste set the cleaver flat on the table, keeping a strict four-finger gap between it and the hand axe. Then she stood and turned.

Glaze stood by the screen, wearing her pale pink linen undershirt and a knee-length skirt. The ties at her collar weren't fully fastened, leaving a small patch of still-damp skin above her collarbone. Her white hair clung wetly to her shoulders and back, its color shifted from snow-white to a translucent silver-grey, like melting snow. Water droplets trailed from the ends, soaking dark spots into the shoulders of her undershirt.

The gold-rimmed pendant hung at her chest. A thin film of moisture had condensed on its surface from the steam, and the patterns within the gem seemed to drift slowly in the firelight.

Vaste's gaze rested on it for half a second. Then she moved to the table, picked up the hand axe, and studied it.

"Your hair."

"What?"

"Dry it."

Glaze picked up the dry towel draped over the screen, covered her head, and rubbed vigorously—haphazardly, like she was wringing out a soaked shirt. Her white hair tangled into knots, strands exploding from every edge of the towel, sticking out in every direction.

Vaste watched for a moment, then set the axe down and walked over.

"Not like that."

She reached out and took hold of the towel's edges in Glaze's hands. She didn't dry it for her—just guided the motion: from roots to ends, once, twice, then let go. Glaze lowered her head and continued the motion she'd been shown.

Vaste was already back at the table. She picked up one of the small knives and a clean cloth and began wiping—the knives were already clean, but she needed something to do, something to reset the boundary.

Had that been crossing a line?

She'd just shown her how to dry her hair. That wasn't crossing a line.

But she'd touched the towel. She wasn't the kind of person who touched other people's towels. Wasn't the kind who taught anyone even the smallest things.

"Why won't you look at me?" Glaze's voice cut through.

Unique—calm, with a faint vibrancy that belonged only to her.

"You've been avoiding me this whole time."

"I haven't."

"Then look at me now."

Vaste didn't turn. She set the small knife on the table, then tilted her head—her gaze landing on Glaze's face. Just her face. Eyes, nose, the mess of white hair. Her gaze didn't drift lower.

"Done."

"...What were you thinking just now?"

"Wondering why your hair is still that wet."

Glaze squeezed a strand of still-dripping hair between her fingers, then continued drying it the way Vaste had shown her. Her motions were gentler now—a few strands still came away tangled, but at least she wasn't scrubbing like laundry. Vaste looked away.

"Humans look at things they're interested in, don't they?" Glaze said.

"...Who told you that?"

"A lot of humans on the street today were looking at things they were interested in."

"Not everything should be looked at."

"Why?"

Vaste opened her mouth, then closed it. She could explain social distance—that people should keep a proper physical space, that being too close to someone you didn't know well made them uncomfortable.

She couldn't. She could explain, but Glaze would just say they weren't "people who didn't know each other well."

She couldn't find the perfect answer.

"...You'll understand later."

Glaze tilted her head, walked over, and sat down beside her. She draped the towel over her neck, reached out, and took Vaste's left hand.

Vaste meant to pull away.

She couldn't.

When her wrist was caught, her whole hand had already been turned palm-up. Glaze's fingers rested against her thumb joint, light and cool.

"Your hand..."

Glaze placed her other hand beside it—both palms open on Glaze's knees.

Vaste's hand bore shallow scabs, thick calluses at the thumb and palm—hard as worn leather. Her finger joints were slightly deformed from years of gripping blades. A pale old scar ran along the inside of her wrist.

Glaze's hand was pale, almost bloodless, skin smooth and unmarked. Even the cuticles around her nails were smooth, no rough edges. As if her body left no trace of anything.

"There are so many marks on your hand." Glaze looked down, lightly pressing her thumb into Vaste's calluses.

"Yeah."

"Why are they different from mine?"

Vaste didn't answer. Glaze's fingers traced the calluses slowly—from the thumb joint to the center of her palm.

"You get hurt a lot, don't you."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"To earn money."

"Does anyone care about your injuries?"

"Not before."

"What about your family..."

Vaste was silent.

She didn't answer right away. The callus at her thumb was being pressed lightly by Glaze's fingertip. In the past, when asked this question, she'd either say "none of your business" or stay silent. Silence for Margaret. Silence for the other Norvic adventurers. Silence for everyone.

When Glaze asked, she was still looking down, tracing the longest scar on Vaste's hand—her finger moving slowly along its length. Her touch was light, almost tender, like she wasn't a naive girl but something gentler.

"I don't know," Vaste said. She didn't ask "why do you want to know." She didn't say "I don't want to answer."

"Why don't you know?"

"I just don't. I never met them."

"Where did they go?"

"I don't know."

Glaze's finger stopped. She looked up at Vaste. The curiosity in those blue eyes had faded, replaced by something quieter—attentive, still.

"I never met my mother either," she said.

Vaste looked at her.

"She was gone when I was very young."

This was the first time she'd told Vaste anything about herself. The first meeting didn't count—she'd only said her name. The first night in the inn didn't count—she'd only said she was looking for someone. Now, here, with her head down and her finger tracing each callus on Vaste's palm, she said a little about herself. Not much. Just a little.

Vaste pulled her hand back from Glaze's knee.

"The person you were looking for—were they your family?"

"No," Glaze said.

Vaste turned her back and checked the rivets on her scabbard. She'd already checked them thoroughly. This pass was unnecessary.

She didn't press further. She flipped the scabbard over and inspected the back—nothing there. But she noticed a spot of light on it—the reflection of the oil lamp caught in Glaze's pendant. That pendant had stayed on even when she came out from behind the screen, even with her collar undone, even through the bath. She'd never taken it off. The patterns within the gem turned slowly, like something moving beneath the ice.

"You're looking at this," Glaze said, lifting the pendant with two fingers.

"...Yeah."

"Do you like it?"

"It's just... unusual."

Glaze looked down, cradling the pendant in her palm, letting it turn slowly in the firelight.

Vaste walked over and crouched before her. This time, she was really looking—not at the corners of her eyes, not half a second, but face to face, eye level, studying the gem. The patterns in the gold border weren't random decoration. They had order—angles, curves, the distinct start-and-stop of written strokes. Like letters. Like words.

"Is this yours?"

"...It should be."

"Should be?"

"The person who raised me gave it to me."

Vaste looked up at her—at those eyes that gleamed like scattered stars.

Glaze lowered her head slightly. "It's always been with me."

Vaste stood and turned to the oil lamp. She pinched the wick and pulled it up—the flame stretched, narrowed, and a thin wisp of smoke rose into the dark, leaving nothing behind.

"It's late. Sleep."

---

Late night. Glaze's breathing had evened out, slow and steady. She lay curled on her side under the blanket, white hair spread across the pillow, one hand gripping the blanket's edge, the other resting over her chest.

Vaste sat on the windowsill, back against the frame, one leg bent, the other dangling. The street below was empty—moonlight turning the cobblestones a pale silver-white.

Before, she'd always stayed alone. Now there was someone else in the room. Before, no one asked her questions. Now someone kept pressing. Before, when she finished cleaning her blade, it was done—today she'd stared at the back of an already-clean scabbard for longer than she needed to.

She turned her face and looked through the dark at the blurry shape on the bed.

At some point—she didn't know when—the distance between them had gone from three steps to two.