Morning in Valenport did not arrive gently.
It arrived with iron.
The clang of the harbor bell rolled through the lower districts before the sun fully cleared the rooftops. Its sound was heavy, official, threaded with authority. Dockhands stirred from sleep. Vendors pulled shutters open. Guards shifted posts, boots scraping stone.
Ryn woke before the second bell.
Not because of the sound.
Because of the silence between them.
He lay still on the narrow cot in the room above the cooper's shop, eyes open, breath slow. The ceiling beams were cracked with age. Dust drifted when the building exhaled. His thigh ached dully where old scar tissue tightened in the cold morning air.
He did not move right away.
He counted.
One breath.
Two.
Three.
Outside, footsteps passed. Two sets. Armored. Measured. Patrol speed.
Searching.
Ryn exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and let the tension slide off his shoulders. Panic was loud. Panic was wasteful. Kael had beaten that into him long before he ever taught him how to cut.
When he finally rose, he dressed quickly. Simple shirt. Worn trousers. Boots laced tight enough to run. His knife rested where it always did, the leather grip warm from his palm.
He did not carry his sword today.
Too visible.
Downstairs, the cooper was already awake, stoking a small fire. The old man nodded once when he saw Ryn.
"City's restless," he muttered. "Guards were knocking doors in the eastern alleys before dawn."
Ryn paused, then nodded. "Looking for someone?"
The cooper snorted. "Always are."
Ryn ate quickly. Bread. Cold cheese. He did not linger. Lingering invited memory.
Outside, Valenport breathed around him.
The city had not quieted overnight. If anything, it had tightened.
Not shouting. Not screaming.
Watching.
Notices had appeared on walls where there had been none yesterday. Parchment nailed crookedly to stone. Wax seals cracked but official. People pretended not to read them while reading them anyway.
Ryn did not stop.
He saw the sketch from the corner of his eye.
Charcoal. Rough but practiced. The lines confident. Too confident.
A cold needle threaded its way down his spine.
He let the feeling pass.
Then exhaled.
Slow. Silent.
The face was not exact. But it did not need to be.
It was the posture that gave it away.
The slight forward angle of the shoulders. Not weak. Not defensive. The way someone stood who had learned early that the world would not adjust for them. Feet set a half step apart. Weight balanced. Ready without announcing it.
Marsh born posture.
Someone had watched him.
Not here.
Before.
Ryn kept walking.
He turned down Fishhook Lane and disappeared into the smell of salt and old nets before the guards reached the notice.
---
The docks were already alive.
Chains rattled. Crates thudded into place. Men shouted measurements and weights. Ships from three kingdoms crowded the piers, their banners hanging limp in the early air.
Ryn took work unloading grain.
It paid poorly.
It paid quietly.
His hands moved automatically. Lift. Carry. Stack. No wasted motion. No complaints. Sweat built beneath his collar. His thigh protested, then settled into a dull ache.
Pain was honest.
Around him, the talk flowed.
"They say it's not just deserters this time."
"No. Different. Someone important went missing."
"Important enough to scare the crown?"
"Important enough the Church sent observers."
That made Ryn pause half a breath longer than necessary.
He adjusted the crate in his grip and continued.
A dockhand with scarred knuckles leaned closer as they worked. "You hear about the body they found near the salt warehouses last night?"
Ryn shook his head.
"Cut clean. Too clean. No aura burns. No signs of spellwork."
Ryn felt nothing at that.
Which unsettled him more than fear would have.
"That's why they're nervous," the man continued. "Knights don't like things they can't explain."
Ryn set the crate down and wiped his hands on his trousers.
When the bell rang for midmorning break, he stepped away without comment.
He did not see the priest at first.
Brother Calen waited near the end of the pier, hands folded in the sleeves of his robe. His expression was calm. Too calm for the tension thrumming through the city.
"You walk like someone who expects trouble," Calen said mildly.
Ryn did not turn. "Most people do."
"Most people pretend they don't."
Ryn turned then.
Calen's eyes were sharp but not unkind. He was younger than Elric. Cleaner. Educated. His robes bore no decoration, but the fabric was better made than a village priest's.
"Brother," Ryn said.
Calen smiled faintly. "You remember me."
"I remember people who watch before they speak."
"Good," Calen replied. "Then you'll understand why I'm saying this quietly."
Ryn waited.
"The city council has authorized joint patrols," Calen continued. "Crown soldiers and Church observers. They're calling it protection."
"And you're calling it something else."
Calen's smile faded. "Containment."
Ryn nodded once.
"They are not hunting criminals," Calen went on. "They're hunting patterns. Anyone who does not fit where they should."
Ryn felt the words settle.
"Ghosts," Calen said softly. Then, after a pause, "Or what frightened men call ghosts."
Ryn met his gaze. "You came to warn me."
"I came to see if warning was necessary."
"And?"
Calen studied him for a moment longer. "You're careful," he said finally. "But careful people still bleed."
Ryn did not deny it.
Calen leaned closer, lowering his voice. "There's a name circulating. Quietly. Among those who read reports instead of listening to rumors."
Ryn's pulse remained steady.
"The Scribe of Rust," Calen said.
The name did not strike like thunder.
It pressed.
Weight without sound.
Ryn felt the scar on his thigh tighten as if remembering something older than pain.
"I don't know who that is," Ryn said truthfully.
Calen nodded. "Neither do most people. Which is why the ones who do are afraid."
A pause.
"They think he trained someone."
Ryn said nothing.
Calen straightened. "If you intend to leave Valenport," he said, "do it before dusk."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you should find a reason to be seen where you are expected," Calen replied. "Silence draws attention in cities like this."
Ryn watched him go.
The priest did not look back.
---
By afternoon, Valenport felt smaller.
Not in distance.
In options.
Ryn avoided main streets. He passed through tanners' alleys and fish markets, places where no one looked twice unless you caused trouble.
Near the old bridge, he felt it again.
The sense of being measured.
Not followed.
Assessed.
He crossed the bridge without breaking stride.
Halfway across, a boy stumbled into him, nearly dropping a basket of apples.
"Sorry," the boy muttered quickly, eyes down.
Ryn caught the basket before it fell. Handed it back.
The boy looked up.
Too young.
Too alert.
"Don't stay near the river tonight," the boy whispered.
Then he ran.
Ryn watched him disappear into the crowd.
Children did not give warnings unless they had learned the cost of ignoring them.
By dusk, the bells rang again.
This time, closer.
Orders echoed through the streets.
Ryn stood at the edge of the lower market, watching torches bloom one by one.
Someone shouted.
Someone ran.
Steel rang.
Ryn stepped back into shadow and waited.
Not for an opening.
For confirmation.
A patrol passed. Three soldiers. One priest. One man in plain clothes who walked like a clerk but watched like a hunter.
The clerk's gaze slid over Ryn.
Paused.
Moved on.
Ryn felt sweat cool along his spine.
That was too close.
When darkness finally settled, Valenport did not sleep.
Ryn left before it tried to swallow him.
He took the eastern road, boots sinking into damp earth beyond the walls. The city's noise followed him for a time, then thinned.
Behind him, bells rang again.
Not alarms.
Search signals.
Ryn did not look back.
He walked until his breath evened out. Until the road narrowed. Until the marsh smell returned faintly, like a memory.
Somewhere behind him, a man was drawing maps.
Somewhere ahead, someone expected him to choose.
Ryn adjusted his grip on the knife at his hip and kept moving.
Quiet did not mean safe.
It never had.
And Valenport had finally realized it too.