Quiet Currents

Quiet Currents

Morning light slanted through the tall windows of the Vice Captain’s office in the Ravenhold Guild. Fine dust drifted slowly in the air, visible whenever the light caught it just right.

John sat behind his desk, his back straight, one hand supporting a teacup. A thin wisp of steam rose quietly. He had not yet taken a sip when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened. Selene stepped inside with measured steps. Her attire was neat, her hair simply tied back. She approached the desk and set a stack of reports down, carefully aligned, their edges straight and even.

John lowered his gaze to the papers. He flipped through several pages, his fingers pausing briefly on one sheet before moving on.

“Hm. Still fairly stable.”

He finally lifted the cup and took a single sip of tea.

“Only three new adventurers this year?” he asked.

Selene gave a small nod.

“Yes, Sir John.”

John read through the list in silence. His fingertip came to a stop.

“Zio...” he repeated softly. “Cold name.”

He scanned the next lines and frowned slightly.

“Really?” he murmured. “Three cores on his first day. Alone? And with this level of quality...”

“Yes.”

“He is reliable.”

Selene paused.

“But not predictable.”

John looked up.

“You know him.”

“A little.”

“An academy graduate?”

“No.”

John leaned back in his chair. His gaze shifted toward the window, where morning light rested against the stone wall across the way.

“What if we offer him a contract,” he said at last, “as a Guild representative for the Royal Forces Convocation.”

Selene hesitated.

“It may not be easy. But I will try to make it work.”

John nodded and closed the report with one neat motion.

“Very well. That will be all. Thank you. Please return to your duties.”

Selene gave a brief bow before leaving the room. The door closed softly behind her.

John remained seated. He opened the report again, letting his gaze settle on the same name.

“A small surprise this year,” he murmured.

He read the name again, slowly.

The tavern door swung open and shut again, spilling midday light across the worn wooden floor before the warmth thinned and vanished. Inside, the clink of glass and the scrape of chairs wove into a restless hum.

Teodor, Leon, and Rask sat at a table pressed against the stone wall. The tabletop bore thin knife scores and the faint rings of old drinks. Leon rotated his glass slowly, watching the liquid tilt and settle.

“The Royal Forces Convocation is coming up soon.”

Teodor gave a small nod.

“It is.”

Leon glanced between the two men.

“Will you go to watch?”

Rask rested his elbow on the table. His fingers tapped once against the wood.

“Watch them parade? It is a spectacle. Nothing more. They look down on the Guild and Adventurers more each year.”

A burst of laughter rose from the table behind them. Leon gave a short laugh.

“Last year, Mark from the Guild looked like a child just learning to fight by Thorne the Lightning.”

Rask's jaw shifted.

“We train in mud and blood. They train in polished halls, with tutors for every flaw.”

Teodor lifted his glass and took a measured sip.

“That’s how it is. They stand under the crown. We stand outside it.”

Leon gave a small shrug, though his fingers tightened briefly around the stem of his glass.

“Why not send the Guild Master? Or a vice captain?”

Teodor traced the rim of his glass.

“They will not risk it.”

Leon tapped his glass lightly.

“Then who will we send this year? Another Mark?”

Rask looked at him sidelong.

“You could offer yourself. Doesn’t the Guild pay well for it?”

Leon exhaled through his nose.

“Where would I put my face if I lost?” His mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “There are many women in the stands.”

Rask gave a quiet huff.

The server arrived with their plates. Wood met ceramic in soft, deliberate knocks. Steam curled upward before fading into the heavy air. For a moment, they ate in silence.

Near the door, someone stepped in, brushing dust from his shoulder. A draft slid across the floor and was gone.

Rask wiped his fingers and reached for his glass.

“Have you heard anything of the boy Trod once kept at his side?”

Teodor’s hand paused above his plate. Brief. Controlled. Then it lowered.

“No. The last letter I received from Trod said the boy was not in Greyhollow at the time. He believed the boy might come to Ravenhold eventually.”

Rask lowered his glass slowly.

“He might still be in Greyhollow.”

Teodor looked into his drink. Light trembled faintly along the surface. His fingers tightened once before easing.

“Perhaps.”

The word lingered between them, thinner than the steam curling above the table.

***

Afternoon light slanted across the cabin yard, glinting faintly on the surface of the river flowing a few paces from the wooden wall. The scent of split sap mingled with the clean smell of river water.

The axe fell in a steady rhythm.

Wood split open, its grain parting in a clean, straight line.

Zio stood beside a half-stacked pile of firewood, his sleeves slightly rolled. A thin line of sweat slid along the side of his neck before disappearing beneath his collar as he lifted the axe again and brought it down without hesitation.

At the riverbank, Nyssa knelt on a flat stone in the shallows. Her silver hair was tied back, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The hems of her trousers were folded to mid-calf, pale skin set against the clear current moving around her legs.

Wet cloth slapped lightly against stone.

She glanced toward the cabin.

“Zio. Help me with this.”

She pointed to a wooden bucket already filled with soaked clothes.

The axe stopped.

Zio walked over without haste. His gaze caught on the fabric clinging to her sleeve, the darkened line of water tracing its shape, before he looked away.

He lifted the bucket without comment and carried it to the drying line.

Water dripped from the wooden base with each step, darkening the earth beneath him.

Nyssa watched him a moment longer than necessary before the corner of her mouth curved faintly. Then she rose from the river.

She began hanging the clothes one by one, smoothing each piece with light movements of her hands.

“Not going to Ravenhold today?” Nyssa asked without turning.

“No,” Zio answered.

“Tired?”

He shook his head.

After a brief pause, he asked,

“Do you want to go?”

“Mm... maybe tomorrow.”

She stretched a damp shirt between her hands before pinning it to the line.

Zio dragged the split logs aside and stacked them neatly against the cabin wall.

“You don’t want to go back?”

Nyssa turned this time.

“Are you sending me away?”

“I asked,” Zio replied.

A light breeze stirred the ends of her hair.

“Not yet.”

Zio straightened as another log split cleanly beneath his axe.

“You’re from Sylvaen?”

“Yes.”

“Why come here?”

“I lived in the academy dormitory before graduating.”

“If you return, which route would you take?” Zio asked.

Nyssa narrowed her eyes slightly.

“You’re asking a lot today.”

Zio did not answer. His grip on the axe handle remained steady.

“I usually pass through Valtheris first,” she continued.

Zio paused.

“Valtheris?”

“Yes. East of Solcarys.”

“There’s a northeastern route from Ravenhold. Shorter,” Zio said.

“It’s mountain forest. Rough terrain. Even carriages struggle there. In Valtheris, I can take a magic train to the border.”

Nyssa studied him, searching his face for something he did not voice.

“You’ve never been to Valtheris?”

“No.”

“I’ll take you someday.”

A brief smile touched her lips.

“After you earn enough. The fare’s expensive.”

Zio lowered his gaze to the axe in his hand.

Nyssa looked at him once before returning to the cabin.

Zio set the axe down and lowered himself onto the ground facing the river.

Water ran on.

“Come eat lunch, Zio.”

Nyssa’s voice drifted from inside the cabin.

“Alright.”

Zio watched the reflection of clouds drift across the river’s surface.

***

The fire had burned low, its glow small but steady. Orange light shifted across the wooden walls, spilling in uneven bands over the floor.

Zio slept on a woven mat in the center of the room.

One arm rested at his side, the other across his chest. His breathing was slow and even. Sleep had softened the lines of his face.

A door creaked.

Nyssa stepped out from the bedroom, quiet and unhurried. She crossed to the table, poured herself a cup of water, and drank. The fire gave a soft crackle.

As she lowered the cup, her gaze settled on him.

The mat was thin. Bare wood beneath it. He had never complained.

She set the cup down and returned to her room. A moment later, she emerged with a folded blanket.

Kneeling beside him, she spread it carefully over his shoulders.

The fabric settled softly.

Her fingers adjusted the edge near his collar, lingering for a brief moment before withdrawing.

She rose without a sound.

The fire burned low.

Outside, the river ran on.