Ryn woke before the pain reached his thoughts.
For a moment, there was only weight.
Not on his chest.
Not on his limbs.
Inside.
A dull pressure behind the ribs, like breath taken too shallow for too long.
He lay still on the narrow cot, eyes open, staring at the low ceiling beams of the rented room. Pale morning light seeped through the shutter cracks, thin as threads. Dust floated lazily in the air. Somewhere below, wood creaked. A door opened. A voice murmured, then faded.
Only then did the ache finish waking up.
His right shoulder throbbed first.
Then the ribs.
Then the cut along his thigh, tight and hot beneath the bandage.
Ryn exhaled slowly through his nose.
Not to ease the pain.
To acknowledge it.
Moving too fast made the body panic.
Panicked bodies made noise.
He sat up carefully, one hand braced against the wall. The floorboards were cold under his bare feet. The room smelled faintly of iron and boiled herbs. Someone had been here while he slept.
Brother Calen, most likely.
The priest had a habit of tending wounds without ceremony, as if injuries were chores rather than tragedies. Ryn appreciated that.
He pulled on his shirt slowly, feeling the tug along his ribs. The fabric rasped against dried blood near his side. Not enough to reopen anything. Enough to remind him.
He paused, hand resting on his chest.
The body remembers, Kael had said once.
Even when the mind lies.
Ryn crossed the room and eased the shutter open.
Valenport spread below him, muted in the early hour. The harbor fog still clung to the lower streets, turning the city into layers. Rooftops above mist. Shadows beneath. Movement suggested rather than seen.
A gull cried somewhere. A rope snapped taut. Metal rang faintly, distant and rhythmic.
The city was awake.
Ryn closed the shutter again.
He did not need to see it to know.
---
He did not dream of the fight.
That was new.
Usually, sleep brought fragments. A flash of motion. A misplaced step. The moment before steel met flesh.
Last night, there had been nothing.
Just darkness.
Just rest.
That unsettled him more than the pain.
He tightened the strap of his satchel and reached for his knife. The worn hilt fit his palm without thought. Familiar. Honest.
Outside the room, footsteps approached.
Three knocks. Measured. Not hurried.
Ryn opened the door.
Brother Calen stood there, sleeves rolled, the gray of his vestments dulled by travel and use. He held a bowl of porridge in one hand and a folded cloth in the other.
"You're awake," Calen said. Not a question.
"Barely," Ryn replied.
Calen stepped inside without waiting for permission. He set the bowl down, then gestured at Ryn's shoulder. "Sit."
Ryn did.
Calen unwound the bandage with practiced care. His fingers were warm. Steady. The cut beneath had closed cleanly, pink at the edges.
"You heal well," Calen said. "Not fast. But properly."
Ryn shrugged slightly, then winced. "I don't rush."
Calen gave a small, knowing sound. "That much is obvious."
He cleaned the wound again, rewrapped it, tighter this time. The pressure helped.
"You stayed still in your sleep," Calen added. "Most injured men don't."
"I learned early," Ryn said. "Thrashing wastes strength."
"And attracts attention."
"Yes."
Calen tied the knot and leaned back. For a moment, he simply watched Ryn, eyes thoughtful.
"They found another body at dawn," he said at last.
Ryn did not react outwardly.
"Near the salt warehouses," Calen continued. "Throat cut. No coin taken."
Ryn lowered his gaze to the floor. "Did they have the mark?"
Calen nodded once. "Rust-red ink. Same script."
The Scribe of Rust.
The name lingered between them like a bruise pressed too often.
"Guards?" Ryn asked.
"Confused. Angry. Loud."
"Church?"
Calen hesitated. Just a fraction. "Watching."
Ryn absorbed that.
Not intervening.
Not condemning.
Waiting to see which way the story leaned.
"What about the sketch?" Ryn asked quietly.
Calen reached into his sleeve and unfolded a piece of parchment. He did not hand it over immediately.
"I saw it posted," he said. "Briefly. Before someone tore it down."
Ryn felt it then.
A cold needle threading its way down his spine.
He let the feeling pass.
Then exhaled.
Slow.
Silent.
Calen noticed. Of course he did.
"The likeness was good," the priest said. "Not exact. But… informed."
"In what way?"
Calen handed him the parchment.
Ryn studied it.
The face was wrong. Too sharp. Too hollow. But the posture…
The slight forward angle of the shoulders.
The way the feet were placed, weight balanced but ready to shift.
The hands drawn loose, not clenched.
Marsh-born posture.
Men who grew up on unstable ground learned to stand differently.
Someone had noticed.
"They didn't draw a boy," Ryn said.
"No," Calen agreed. "They drew a survivor."
Ryn folded the parchment carefully. "Whoever ordered it has seen him move."
Calen's expression tightened. "Or trained someone who has."
Silence stretched.
Down below, a bell rang. Not an alarm. A marker of time.
"Ryn," Calen said, lowering his voice. "You can still leave Valenport."
"I know."
"You are not trapped."
"I know."
"And yet…"
Ryn met his gaze. "If I leave now, I run blind. If I stay, I learn who remembers Kael."
Calen sighed softly. "That name again."
"He died because of it," Ryn said. Not angry. Certain.
"Or despite it," Calen countered gently.
Ryn did not answer.
---
By midday, the docks were louder.
Not chaotic.
Tense.
Workers spoke in short bursts. Laughter died quickly. Eyes lingered on uniforms, then slid away.
Ryn kept his head down as he hauled crates, the weight grounding him. Salt bit into old cuts on his hands. Rope burned his palms.
Good.
Pain clarified.
A group of dockhands clustered near the edge of the pier, voices low.
"They say he writes names," one muttered. "Not contracts. Not orders. Names."
"Everyone writes names."
"Not like this. Writes them, then people vanish."
Ryn set his crate down. Listened without appearing to.
"They caught one last night," another said. "Man swore he never met him. Still begged when they took him."
"Guards or Church?"
"Both."
Ryn straightened slowly.
Both.
That was new.
A shout echoed from the far end of the dock. A scuffle. Then silence.
When Ryn looked, two guards were escorting a man away. The man's hands shook. His mouth moved, though no sound carried.
The mark on his wrist was visible even from here.
Rust-red.
Ryn turned away.
The body remembers.
But it also warns.
---
That evening, as the city leaned into shadow, Ryn returned to the chapel cellar.
Lysandra was already there.
She stood near the map table, gloves off, sleeves rolled, dark hair pinned back loosely. A candle burned low beside her, wax pooled thickly at the base.
"You're limping," she said without looking up.
"Old wound," Ryn replied. "New reminder."
She turned then, eyes sharp. "They're tightening the net."
"I noticed."
"They're using Church routes now. Old records. Burial lists. Confession ledgers."
Ryn frowned slightly. "That won't be popular."
"No," Lysandra said. "But it's effective."
She stepped closer. Lowered her voice. "Someone high enough approved it."
Ryn felt the weight settle again. Inside.
"Do you know who?" he asked.
Lysandra shook her head. "Not yet."
She hesitated, then added, "But whoever they are… they're afraid of stories spreading faster than blades."
Ryn nodded.
Names mattered.
Kael had known that.
"I won't disappear," Ryn said quietly.
Lysandra studied him. "I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
They stood there, the candle guttering between them.
Above, Valenport breathed. Uneasy. Watching itself.
And somewhere within its walls, someone was crossing names off a list.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
As if they had all the time in the world.