The rain stopped sometime before dawn.
Ryn noticed it not because of the sound, but because of its absence. The steady whisper against stone and wood had faded, leaving behind a city that felt exposed, as if someone had peeled away a layer of protection. Valenport breathed differently without rain. Sharper. More alert.
He lay awake on the narrow bed, eyes open, counting the seconds between distant footsteps outside the boarding house. Each step carried intent. Some hurried. Some cautious. Some heavy with armor.
He did not move.
When the room finally lightened from black to gray, Ryn sat up slowly. His thigh ached in the familiar way, the old scar stiff from cold and damp. He welcomed the pain. It reminded him where he was, and more importantly, where he was not.
Greymire was far behind him now.
He dressed quietly, layering worn cloth and leather. The knife rested at his hip, its weight reassuring. Not comfort. Awareness. He checked the window, then the door, then paused with his hand on the latch.
Today would not be simple.
Downstairs, the common room smelled of boiled grain and old smoke. A few early risers sat hunched over bowls, speaking in low voices that stopped whenever someone new entered. Eyes flicked toward Ryn, then away again. Not recognition. Suspicion.
That was worse.
He ate quickly and left before questions found him.
Outside, Valenport was already awake in pieces. Dock bells rang once, sharp and hollow. Somewhere a cart tipped over, followed by curses. The eastern market smelled of wet rope, fish, and hot oil. Guards stood in pairs now instead of singles, their hands resting closer to sword hilts than yesterday.
Something had shifted.
Ryn felt it as he walked, not as pressure but as tension in the air, like a bow drawn and held too long.
At the corner near the dye vats, he saw the first sign.
A board nailed to the stone wall, fresh wood still pale beneath the grime. Parchment sheets had been tacked onto it, edges curling from damp. Notices. Sketches.
Ryn slowed, then stopped with his back to a spice stall, pretending to adjust his pack strap.
There were five sketches.
Four were crude. Men with heavy brows. Crooked noses. Scars exaggerated for effect. Common faces twisted into monsters.
The fifth was different.
Ryn felt it before he saw it clearly.
A cold needle threaded its way down his spine. He let the sensation pass. Let his breath steady. In through the nose. Out slow. Silent.
Then he looked.
The sketch was charcoal, light but confident. A young man. Narrow shoulders. Head slightly bowed, not in fear but habit. Feet positioned as if ready to move, weight balanced forward, not braced. Marsh born posture.
The artist had caught it.
Not the face exactly. The eyes were vague. The jaw unfinished. But the stance was unmistakable.
Ryn.
Not a portrait. An understanding.
Beneath it, written in firm script:
Person of Interest
For Questioning
By Order of the Southern Crown
No reward listed.
That mattered more than gold.
Ryn stepped away before his reflection could settle on the parchment.
He moved with the crowd, letting bodies break lines of sight. He did not run. Running drew shapes in memory. He turned down a narrow lane, then another, then crossed the street twice for no reason at all.
Someone knew what to look for.
Someone had studied Kael.
And someone had taught the guards how to see.
By midmorning, the city felt smaller.
Ryn worked the docks under a false name until noon, hauling crates and keeping his head down. The labor grounded him, but it did not quiet his thoughts. Every splash of water sounded too loud. Every raised voice felt directed.
At the far end of the pier, a group of dockhands argued in whispers. One spat into the water and shook his head.
"They say he never fought," one muttered. "Just stood there and people fell."
"Bullshit," another replied. "That's priest talk."
"No," the first insisted. "My cousin saw it. Guy didn't shout. Didn't glow. Just walked."
Ryn kept lifting crates.
They were talking about Kael.
Or about the echo of him.
When the bell rang for midday rest, Ryn washed his hands and left without a word. He did not go back toward the boarding house. Instead, he took the long route toward the old quarter, where stone buildings leaned inward like tired men sharing secrets.
He felt eyes on him halfway there.
Not fixed. Passing. Testing.
At the corner near the collapsed aqueduct, a voice spoke softly.
"You're going to draw blood if you keep clenching your hands like that."
Ryn stopped.
Brother Calen stood beneath a cracked archway, hands folded inside his sleeves. The priest looked as he always did. Unremarkable. Gray robes. Weathered sandals. A face that forgot itself unless you looked twice.
Ryn turned slowly.
"I wasn't aware I was clenching," he said.
Calen smiled faintly. "You weren't. Your body was."
They walked together without agreement, steps matching naturally.
"You saw the sketches," Calen said.
"Yes."
"And you're still here."
"For now."
Calen nodded. "Good. Running teaches them what to chase."
They passed a patrol. One guard glanced at them, then dismissed the sight. Two men. One priest. No threat.
"Do you know who drew it?" Ryn asked.
"No," Calen said. "But I know who recognized it."
He paused.
"A woman from the records office. She used to copy border census lists. She said the posture reminded her of river folk from the southern marshes. Men who learn balance before strength."
Ryn exhaled once.
Kael had warned him about stories. How they moved faster than blades.
"They are calling it an investigation," Calen continued. "But the Church has been asked to advise."
"Advise what."
"How to separate guilt from silence."
Ryn almost smiled.
Almost.
They stopped at the steps of a small chapel wedged between warehouses. Its doors were open. Inside, candles burned low.
"You can rest here," Calen said. "No guards cross the threshold without reason."
"For how long."
Calen met his eyes. "Long enough to choose."
Inside, the chapel smelled of wax and stone. Ryn sat on a back bench, shoulders loosening despite himself. The quiet pressed in, heavy but clean.
"You are not invisible anymore," Calen said, sitting across from him. "That is not a failure. It is a transition."
"I did not intend to be seen."
"No one does."
Silence settled.
After a moment, Ryn spoke. "They are not looking for a killer."
Calen tilted his head.
"They are looking for a method," Ryn continued. "Something that doesn't fit their rules."
Calen's eyes darkened. "And methods threaten institutions."
Ryn nodded.
"What will you do," Calen asked.
Ryn closed his eyes.
Kael's voice surfaced unbidden.
You don't fight the noise. You move so it cannot touch you.
"I will stay," Ryn said. "Until they make a mistake."
Calen smiled, not kindly, but with respect. "Then you will need to understand how this city hunts."
He stood.
"There is a place," he said. "Where names are traded before they become warrants. Where fear learns how to speak politely."
Ryn opened his eyes. "Where."
Calen hesitated. Just for a breath.
"The Rust Ledger."
The words settled like ash.
The Scribe of Rust did not write alone.
Outside, a bell rang again. Not the dock bell. Deeper. Slower.
Curfew.
Ryn rose.
The city had drawn its breath.
Now it would exhale.
And somewhere in that breath, someone would try to claim his silence as guilt.
Ryn stepped into the narrowing streets, not loud, not hidden.
Present.