The first thing Ryn learned was that doing nothing could be louder than any mistake.
He realized it while standing in line for bread.
The street was narrow, pressed between a cooper's shop and a shuttered dye house whose windows were stained permanently blue. Morning light slid across cobblestone slick with last night's rain, catching on boots, hems, and the small movements people made when they thought no one important was watching.
Ryn felt eyes on him anyway.
Not staring.
Measuring.
He shifted his weight slightly, just enough to ease the ache in his left calf. The old wound had been stiff since dawn. Too much walking the night before. Too little sleep. His pack rested against his spine like a quiet accusation.
The baker glanced at him twice before speaking.
"That'll be two copper," the man said, voice neutral, but his hand lingered on the loaf longer than necessary.
Ryn placed the coins down slowly.
The baker released the bread, then added, almost casually, "You're not from the docks."
It was not a question.
Ryn met his eyes. "No."
A pause. Not hostile. Curious.
"Haven't seen you before," the baker said. "But you've been seen."
There it was.
Ryn nodded once, took the bread, and stepped aside without argument. No denial. No explanation. Denials drew lines. Explanations invited follow-ups.
He walked away chewing slowly, the crust rough against his tongue.
By the time he reached the end of the street, he understood what Valenport was doing to him.
It was not hunting him.
It was waiting.
---
He cut through alleys instead of main roads, not out of fear, but habit. The city changed character as he moved east. Noise softened. Buildings grew taller, their upper floors leaning inward like eavesdroppers. The smell of salt gave way to oil, damp wood, and old stone.
At a corner near a collapsed archway, he stopped.
A notice board had been nailed into the wall sometime recently. Fresh wood. Fresh iron spikes.
Ryn did not approach immediately.
Three men stood nearby pretending not to read it. One scratched his beard too often. Another shifted his stance every few breaths. The third watched reflections in a window across the street instead of the board itself.
Guards out of uniform. Or men paid to watch those who watched.
Ryn waited until a cart rattled past, blocking sightlines for a breath, then stepped forward.
The parchment was new.
Too new.
The ink had not fully set.
The sketch was better than the last one.
That was the first thing he noticed.
The shoulders were wrong in a way only someone observant would catch. Slightly forward. Not weakness. Habit. Someone used to wind, uneven ground, and watching horizons instead of walls.
The feet were spaced wider than city folk preferred.
Marsh born posture.
A cold needle threaded its way down Ryn's spine.
He let it pass.
Inhaled once.
Exhaled slowly through his nose.
The face was still incomplete. Intentionally so. Enough resemblance to prompt recognition. Not enough to be challenged in court.
Below it, written in a careful hand:
Questioning requested.
In connection with matters of provincial security.
No reward listed.
No accusation.
That made it worse.
Ryn stepped back, folded his hands behind him like another curious passerby, and memorized the nail pattern holding the parchment in place.
Someone wanted him alive.
Someone patient.
---
By midday, the city felt tighter.
Not louder.
Closer.
Ryn avoided the docks entirely and crossed into the Old Stone Quarter, where the streets twisted on themselves and buildings remembered older laws. Here, churches were smaller but older, their doors worn smooth by centuries of unremarkable prayers.
He chose one at random.
The interior smelled of wax and dust. Light filtered in through narrow slits high in the walls, illuminating nothing in particular. No grand altar. No polished iconography. Just benches and a single figure kneeling near the front.
A priest.
Not Brother Calen.
This one was older, hair thinning, hands folded loosely as if prayer were a suggestion rather than an obligation.
Ryn sat three rows back.
He did not pray.
Neither did the priest speak.
Time passed.
Finally, the man said, without turning, "You're carrying more tension than sin."
Ryn almost smiled.
"Is that unusual here?" he asked.
The priest exhaled, slow. "In this city? No. In this chapel? A little."
Ryn considered. "I won't stay long."
"I didn't ask you to leave."
Silence again.
Then, "They've posted your likeness closer to the inner districts," the priest added. "That means the matter has moved beyond dock gossip."
Ryn stiffened slightly.
"You're well informed," he said.
"I hear confessions," the priest replied. "And regrets tend to talk too much."
Ryn leaned back, letting the stone wall take some of his weight. "Do you believe the Church should assist with this kind of search?"
The priest turned at last.
His eyes were tired. Not cynical. Just worn.
"I believe," he said carefully, "that institutions act according to their fears, not their creeds. The Church fears disorder. Kings fear uncertainty. And men fear being irrelevant."
Ryn nodded.
"Then you know why I won't turn myself in."
"I suspected as much."
The priest studied him for a long moment, then said, "If you intend to remain in Valenport, standing still will cost you more than moving poorly."
"I know."
"Do you know where you're going?"
Ryn stood. "Not yet."
The priest smiled faintly. "Then don't linger near places that teach patience."
Ryn left through a side door.
Outside, the sky had darkened.
Storm coming.
---
That evening, Valenport changed its rhythm.
Shutters closed earlier. Lanterns stayed lit longer. Conversations shortened. People looked away faster.
Ryn felt it in the way footsteps echoed behind him, never close enough to confront, never far enough to dismiss.
He reached the canal just as rain began to fall.
Not heavy.
Persistent.
The water darkened, rippling with each drop. Barges creaked against their moorings like animals adjusting in sleep.
Ryn stopped beneath a stone bridge and waited.
He did not need to turn to know he was no longer alone.
"You're harder to corner than expected," a voice said from the shadows.
Female.
Calm.
Not a guard.
Ryn angled his body slightly, keeping the canal to his left. "You're following me poorly, then."
A figure stepped forward into the lantern glow.
Not armored.
Not cloaked.
Lysandra.
Her hair was bound simply tonight. No insignia visible. She looked like a woman who had chosen the wrong street at the wrong hour and decided to own the mistake.
"Following implies urgency," she said. "This was observation."
Ryn watched her carefully. "And your conclusion?"
"That standing still no longer suits you."
A beat.
"Neither does running blindly."
Rain slid down the stone between them.
Ryn said, "You shouldn't be seen with me."
"I'm already seen," she replied. "That's the difference."
He considered that.
"You've attracted attention," she continued. "From men who don't want answers. They want containment."
Ryn's hand flexed once at his side.
"And you?"
"I want to know why a dead swordsman from a marsh village still troubles the southern crown."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Ryn said, "Then we want the same thing."
Lysandra studied his face, the posture, the quiet control. The stillness that unsettled men more than aggression ever could.
"No," she said softly. "We want truths for different reasons."
Rain fell harder now.
Ryn looked toward the canal, then back at her. "If I move, people get hurt."
"If you don't," she replied, "you become a symbol. And symbols get burned."
Another pause.
Then Ryn nodded once.
"Where?" he asked.
Lysandra turned, already walking. "Somewhere loud enough to disappear."
Ryn followed.
Behind them, the city continued breathing, patient and watchful, as if pleased that at last, something had decided to move.