Yohan left the magistrate’s house with only what the scullery maid pressed into his hands—bread still warm, a wedge of cheese, a bruised apple wrapped in cloth.
Theron walked beside him in silence for a ti before speaking.
“Thorne’s wife,” he said gently. “He did not speak of her.”
“She died last winter,” Yohan replied. “Heyshem sent Sheena to tend her.”
Theron glanced at him. “Your sister?”
“My sister by marriage,” Yohan said. “Heyshem’s wife. And our clan’s primary herbalist and healer.” He paused. “She knew, within a day, that she could not save her.”
Theron slowed. “And yet she stayed.”
“Yes,” Yohan said simply. “She eased her passing. Pain kept at bay. Breath made easier. No false promises. Just presence.” Sothing settled into his voice—not hardness, but weight. “That is also a kind of duty.”
Theron bowed his head slightly.
“The Hall writes much of cures,” he said. “Too little of endings.”
The old pond lay quiet beneath a low sky.
It was not deep—only a broad widening of the stream where stones had been cleared and the banks worn smooth by years of feet, hooves, and work. No dam held it fast. It existed because people returned to it, season after season.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringent.
Today, it was wrong.
No dragonflies skimd the surface. No frogs stirred the reeds. The water held a dull, unmoving sheen, reluctant to reflect even the clouded light above.
Yohan knelt at the bank and closed his eyes.
He listened.
Nothing answered.
No insects. No birds. Even the wind bent around the place instead of crossing it. The silence pressed in—not empty, but withheld, like breath drawn and never released.
He leaned closer and tasted the air.
Beneath damp earth and old water lay a faint tallic note. Old blood. Long dried. Recently disturbed.
When he shifted to follow it, the scent thinned and vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
The ground told little. Stone packed hard by years of trampling, edges scoured by rain and runoff. Any spoor had been stripped away by weather and use. The pond offered nothing but unease.
Yohan rose.
A man worked nearby, setting a broken fence post back into place with a stone maul. His hands were rough, his eyes cautious in the way of soone used to watching animals more than people.
When Yohan spoke of the quiet and the sll, the man’s mouth tightened.
“Aye,” he said. “Livestock won’t drink here so days. Won’t even cross the stones. Lost three geese last week—no blood, no noise. Wasn’t foxwork.”
He nodded toward a dark stand of trees beyond the pond.
“Things don’t linger here anymore,” he said. “But they pass through.”
Yohan thanked him and turned toward the trees.
The woods closed quickly. Light fractured into narrow shards between trunks. Every step felt asured by sothing unseen. Yohan slowed, senses spread wide.
Nothing resolved.
No track.
No clear scent.
Only the certainty of being observed without witness.
At last, he stopped.
“This place yields nothing,” he said. “Not because nothing passed here—but because it chose not to remain.”
Theron nodded, fingers tightening around the haft of his spear.
“We return,” Yohan said. “Whisperwind Gully tomorrow.”
They withdrew as dusk thickened, every movent deliberate. When the lights of Three Pines appeared between the trees, they felt earned.
Yohan glanced once over his shoulder.
The old pond lay hidden again, its silence intact.
So places did not cry out when fouled.
They rembered—and waited.
Reviews
All reviews (0)