Kiran packed in a hush.
He moved as if each motion might wake the thing that had kept the square silent.
The sword lay wrapped in oilcloth on the floor beside his boot.
The amulet sat on the pallet like a small, stubborn moon.
He had two days until dawn.
Too many possibilities were stacked like coins he could not spend.
"Ready?"
Elias's voice came from the doorway without knocking.
It carried the calm of maps that had learned hard lines.
"Almost," Kiran answered, tightening a strap.
His palm left a dark smear on the leather—old blood mixed with oil.
Elias stepped in.
He carried a coil of wire and a bundle of field rations.
"Water purification, snares, and signs for Echo-Beasts. We start now."
His tone left no room for argument.
Kiran slid his pack closed.
"Teach me the traps again."
Elias set a small metal frame on the bench.
He spoke with the kind of punctuation only years of precision gave.
"Snares catch weight and rhythm. Don't use them for beasts you don't understand. They tear where you expect spring, not where the animal will be."
Kiran took the tools clumsily.
"So check the anchor, then the tension?"
"Anchor first. Then test the play with a twig. If the twig discards false triggers, it's safe for a quarry. If not—"
Elias lifted a hand as if to pin a map to the air.
"It will bite you back."
The lesson unfolded in short, exact motions.
Elias demonstrated a water filter with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Kiran copied and spilled a little.
"Again," Elias said.
He offered no pity.
"You're messy," Elias observed, voice neutral.
"I don't have a master's seal," Kiran snapped.
Then he softened.
"I have hands that know how to work."
Elias allowed a faint smile.
"Work trumps pedigree most days."
They went outside.
The canyon air was thin and intent.
Elias handed him a flow meter and asked him to read the baseline.
The device's needles hovered like small, uncertain birds.
"Listen," Elias said.
"Don't name it. Count it."
He tapped a steady pattern with two fingers on the meter's rim.
Kiran matched the count and the needle steadied.
A stone thrummed somewhere down the ravine.
Elias's face tightened by a fraction.
"Good, but your attention drifts," Elias said.
"When it drifts, you miss the tremor before the rip. You saw the Spinner but you let it find you. Do not repeat that."
Kiran's jaw clenched.
He kept his voice small.
"I won't."
Elias moved to a coil of wire.
He began teaching signals.
Three short taps for danger.
Long draw for retreat.
He made Kiran practice until the boy's fingers ached.
Until the taps sounded like a language.
"You forget one thing," Kiran said between repetitions.
"How to read when instruments lie."
Elias's eyes flicked to him.
"When instruments lie, you trust what you can verify with your hands. That is why we still carry knives and rope."
He handed Kiran a small, blunt blade.
"Learn to find the true line by cutting it."
Kiran did not cut meaninglessly.
He cut to test the rope's weave.
The wood's grain.
The thread that held the meter's casing.
The work steadied a part of him that had been thin as paper.
At night they ran drills.
Elias slammed a bell-crystal and the canyon answered with a chorus that made Kiran's teeth ache.
Kiran stumbled on the sixth repetition, lungs burning.
Elias's hand steadied his shoulder.
"Endurance maps a different way," Elias said.
"Not all fights are muscle. Some are patience."
Kiran's fingers left calluses on the rope.
The wound on his palm had scabbed but tugged when he gripped.
He did not speak of it.
The silence kept a promise.
The next afternoon he found Meira among ruined crates.
She was mending a lamp with nimble hands.
She had traded a scarf for a better patch on her coat.
The fabric flashed with a color he had not seen on her before.
"You leave tomorrow," she said without looking up.
Her voice was lighter than the news warranted.
"Two days," Kiran corrected.
He pressed a coin into his palm and handed it across the bench.
"For food while you're broke."
Meira's fingers closed around the coin with a quick, grateful motion.
"You're finally getting paid," she grinned.
But her eyes were a little distant.
"People talk."
"About what? The sword?" Kiran swallowed.
"About worse things."
Her smile thinned.
"They say you carry something of the Torn Ones."
She set the lamp back down and gave it a careful twist.
"They say you will bring nightmares."
Kiran put his hand to the amulet through his shirt.
The cold seam met the pad of his thumb.
He kept the motion private.
"I'll be careful."
"Say you will write," Meira said.
Her voice held the earnestness of someone who keeps promises as currency.
"Send money. Not stories."
"I will," he said.
He left more than coins.
He left a promise folded small enough to fit in his pocket.
As he stood to go, Meira's grip tightened on his wrist.
"If Sylas comes asking, tell him nothing," she said.
Her face had an edge now.
The festival laughter had been replaced with a ledger of threats.
"Don't let the shiny parts fool you."
Kiran nodded and left.
The market smelled of spice and solder.
The day felt like something wound too tight.
At the market he bought lamp fuel and spare wire.
The traders haggled in runs and half-songs.
A pot at a stall hissed.
The vendor offered him a sample, pressing bread into his palm.
Kiran took it and kept moving.
He passed Lysandro by the weaver's stand.
Lysandro's new blade hung at his hip.
Thin blue veins ran like frost along its edge.
The metal gave off a faint, cold shimmer that made Kiran's skin prick.
"Good to see you," Lysandro said.
His voice was rough with the pleasure of a man who owned a market's small pleasures.
"You're early," Kiran replied.
Lysandro's laugh scratched the air.
"For a man who lacked color, you sure find strange company."
He tapped his new blade.
"This hums in places dark things whisper. It'll make your relic look like child's play."
Kiran's mouth closed.
He thought of Borgan's ledger.
Elias's warning.
Sylas's card in his pocket.
"Take care," he said.
The words were small but steady.
"Thanks," Lysandro answered with an empty tilt.
"Good luck against the whispers, orphan."
Some men spat a line that sounded like a prayer.
Kiran let the insult fold into his steps.
He focused on the list in his head.
Rope.
Filter.
Spare crystal.
First-aid.
His fingers brushed the amulet.
The seam was hard as ever.
The dormitory was a thin light when a soft knock came at his door.
He answered to find Kael.
His apron was stained and his bandana askew.
He held a small, wrapped bundle.
"Thought you might need this," Kael said.
His voice was small as a child's hand.
He held out the package with both arms as if presenting an offering.
Kiran took it.
The bundle was warm from the kitchen's hearth.
Inside were extra rations—dried meat, dense biscuits.
A small kit of sewn cloths, pins, and a blunt needle.
There was also a tiny flask of something sweet-smelling.
"I heard," Kael added, eyes dropping.
"About the mission. I—"
He stopped.
The boy's hands fidgeted.
"My family used to go on recon. They said to never go empty."
Kiran's shoulders dropped a fraction.
He had no words for the odd portrait of kindness.
"Thank you, Kael."
Kael shuffled.
"Keep the amulet safe," he said.
The blue bandana was tugged around his wrist like a promise.
"And don't forget to eat."
Kiran nodded.
Kael's face held an earnestness that needed no map.
The small act sat like a coin in his palm.
When Kael left, Elias appeared in the corridor.
He appeared as if summoned by the quiet.
"Good of him," Elias said.
"Small kindnesses are often the only true maps we have."
Kiran set the supplies into his pack.
He began folding the sword into its oilcloth.
He hesitated over the amulet.
The object had been his mother's last gift.
A passport to both rumor and salvation.
He tied a cord through the amulet's broken loop.
He wound it around the sword's hilt.
The metal and silver met with a simple knot.
His hands brushed both objects together.
A single cold pulse ran up his spine.
This time, he was sure.
It wasn't imagination.