The Weight of Being Seen
Ryn did not notice the sketch at first.
That was the dangerous part.
The notice board stood near the inner gate of Valenport, wedged between a weathered tax decree and a half-torn proclamation about dock tariffs. Paper layered upon paper, some yellowed with age, others fresh and stiff, nailed and renailed until the wood beneath looked more scar than surface.
Ryn passed it every morning.
Usually without looking.
That day, he was thinking about bread.
About how many hours he would need to work before he could afford something warm instead of stale. About the ache in his shoulders that had not faded since the docks. About the way the city never truly slept, only shifted the shape of its noise.
He would have walked past again.
But someone else stopped.
A man in a brown coat. Merchant class by the cut. Nervous by the way his eyes kept flicking toward the street. He leaned close to the board, lips moving as he read.
Then he stepped back.
And swore under his breath.
Ryn's eyes followed the sound before his thoughts did.
The sketch was not large.
Charcoal on cheap parchment. Lines rough but confident. No name written beneath it. No bounty amount. Just a short description penned in a careful, unfamiliar hand.
Male. Youth. Marsh-born.
Last seen near Greymire.
A cold needle threaded its way down Ryn's spine.
He let the feeling pass.
Did not tense.
Did not freeze.
He exhaled slowly, silent, through his nose, counting the breath the way Kael had taught him when pain or panic threatened to pull his balance away.
One.
Two.
The world steadied.
Then he looked properly.
The sketch was not flattering.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The face was too narrow. The eyes set a little too deep. The mouth caught halfway between neutral and wary, as if the artist had seen him listening more often than speaking.
But it was close.
Too close.
What marked it was not the face.
It was the posture.
The shoulders sloped forward just a fraction, not from weakness, but habit. A lifetime of ducking beneath low beams, of walking against marsh wind, of carrying weight without complaint. The feet were drawn slightly outward, stance wide without being aggressive, the balance low.
Marsh-born posture.
Ryn had never thought of it that way.
But seeing it rendered in charcoal made something tighten in his chest.
Someone had watched him walk.
Not run.
Not fight.
Walk.
The merchant muttered again. "They're serious now…"
Ryn stepped away before the man could notice him staring.
He did not hurry.
That would draw eyes.
Instead, he merged back into the flow of the street, letting bodies pass close, letting noise cover the soft shift of his breathing. The city swallowed him the way it always did, loud and indifferent and endlessly alive.
But the sketch stayed with him.
Like a weight.
Not fear.
Recognition.
---
He did not go back to the docks that day.
Instead, Ryn drifted.
Valenport had many faces depending on where you stood. Near the harbor, the air tasted of salt and rot and sweat. In the merchant quarter, it smelled of oil and ink and ambition. Near the inner walls, stone replaced wood, and voices dropped into measured tones.
He kept to the seams.
Places where people passed through but did not linger.
He listened.
"…not thieves," someone whispered near a spice stall. "They don't take coin."
"…three taken last night. All quiet types."
"…scribe marks. Rust-colored wax."
That made him pause.
Just long enough to hear a dockhand spit and mutter, "Ghost hunters, my ass."
Ghosts again.
Everyone used the word differently.
Some meant criminals who left no trace.
Others meant ideas that would not stay buried.
Ryn thought of Kael.
Of the parchment.
Of the title that had burned slower than the rest.
The Scribe of Rust.
He did not know what it meant.
But someone else did.
And they were close enough to put his shape on a board.
---
He found the chapel by accident.
Or perhaps habit.
It was small. Too small to impress. Stone walls patched with age. No stained glass. No banners. Just a single iron bell hanging above the door, green with corrosion.
Inside, it was quiet.
Not silent.
But quiet in the way marshland was quiet. Alive, but not demanding attention.
A man knelt near the altar.
Not praying loudly.
Just sitting.
Hands folded.
Breathing slow.
He wore the gray of lower clergy. No insignia. No rings. His hair was thinning, his back slightly bent, as if the years had pressed gently but persistently upon him.
Ryn stood near the door.
The man did not turn immediately.
"You can come in," he said, voice mild. "You're letting the cold follow you."
Ryn stepped inside and closed the door.
The man rose slowly. When he turned, Ryn recognized him.
Brother Calen.
They had spoken only once before. Over bread. Over nothing important.
"You look thinner," Calen said.
"So do you," Ryn replied.
Calen smiled faintly. "That's Valenport for you. Sit."
Ryn did.
The bench creaked.
Calen studied him for a moment, eyes sharp without being unkind. "They've started putting faces to rumors."
Ryn did not ask how he knew.
"Yes," he said instead.
"The board?"
"Yes."
Calen nodded. "They're not arresting. Not yet. They're watching who looks away too quickly. Who looks too long."
"Who drew it?" Ryn asked.
Calen hesitated.
"That," he said carefully, "is harder to answer."
Ryn waited.
"They say the sketches come from a man who doesn't attend trials," Calen continued. "Doesn't ask permission. He listens. He writes. And when he finishes, others move."
Ryn's fingers curled against his knee.
"Does the Church know him?"
Calen's gaze sharpened.
"The Church knows of him," he said. "Which is not the same thing."
Silence stretched.
"You're being hunted," Calen said gently.
Ryn nodded.
"For what?"
"I don't know."
"That's the truth," Calen said. "Not a dodge."
"Yes."
Calen sighed. "You're carrying someone else's shadow."
Ryn thought of Kael standing between him and the sword.
"Yes."
---
Night fell early.
Clouds rolled in from the west, heavy with the promise of rain. The streets grew slick, lantern light stretching long and distorted across wet stone.
Ryn did not return to his rented room.
Instead, he climbed.
Valenport's old watch paths still existed if you knew where to look. Narrow stairs cut into the inner wall. Half-forgotten walkways above storage vaults. Places no one patrolled because no one expected anything to happen there.
From above, the city looked different.
Less loud.
More fragile.
He could see the chapel bell. The docks. The gate where the notice board stood.
He could also see movement.
Torches.
Not random.
Measured.
Three figures passed beneath him, cloaks dark, steps unhurried. One paused near the board. Another marked something in a small ledger.
The third looked up.
Not directly at Ryn.
But close enough that instinct pulled him flat against the stone.
He felt the wall's cold seep into his ribs.
He breathed.
Slow.
Silent.
The figures moved on.
Ryn stayed where he was long after they vanished.
Being unseen was a skill.
But being seen…
That was weight.
Kael had taught him how to move.
How to cut.
How to endure pain.
He had never taught him what to do when the world decided to look directly at you.
Ryn pressed his forehead briefly to the stone.
Then he rose.
Tomorrow, he would leave Valenport.
Not fleeing.
Repositioning.
The marsh had taught him that survival was not about speed.
It was about knowing when to sink… and when to step onto firmer ground.
Somewhere below, a bell rang.
Once.
Not a warning.
An announcement.
And Ryn knew, with quiet certainty, that the man who had drawn that sketch was already listening for the sound of his footsteps.