Quiet Steps
The next day unfolds at Beacon Academy with a familiar rhythm.
Classes end in the late afternoon, and the campus slowly fills with the sound of footsteps, distant laughter, and the echo of training weapons striking against one another. The sky above Beacon is clear, washed in pale blue and drifting clouds.
For once, Erik walks alone.
Pyrrha had looked apologetic when they parted earlier that day—surrounded by classmates who quickly realized that asking her for help with Professor Oobleck's assignment was far more efficient than struggling on their own. She had promised to find him later, fingers squeezing his hand just a little longer than necessary before she was pulled away.
Erik hadn't protested.
He understands.
And more importantly, he uses the time.
He moves through the academy grounds at an unhurried pace, posture relaxed, expression neutral. To anyone watching, he looks like just another student enjoying the quiet hours after class.
In reality, his attention is sharp.
His eyes track movement before faces. He notes how often certain corridors are used and which stairwells remain mostly empty during this time of day. He listens—not to conversations, but to the cadence of footsteps, the way sound carries differently in open courtyards versus enclosed halls.
Patterns emerge quickly.
He passes by training grounds first, marking the distance between combat zones and nearby buildings. The presence of instructors is heavier here, their attention constantly shifting. Erik doesn't linger.
Instead, he drifts outward.
Toward the edges.
The academy is old—older than most people realize. Beneath its polished paths and towering structures lie layers of design meant for practicality rather than aesthetics. Erik finds those layers easily.
A side corridor near the east wing leads to a rarely used passage that cuts behind several classrooms. The door isn't locked—just ignored. He slips through without breaking stride.
Inside, the air feels cooler.
He walks slowly, memorizing turns, counting steps, noting which doors connect to what. A faint hum of machinery vibrates through the walls—maintenance systems running quietly in the background.
Erik pauses near an intersection and glances both ways before pulling his notebook from his jacket.
His movements are precise.
Short notes. Clean symbols. No wasted words.
He closes the notebook again before moving on.
Some areas require patience.
Erik waits for groups of students to pass before stepping into open spaces, times his movement with the flow of foot traffic so he never appears out of place. When voices approach unexpectedly, he adjusts without hesitation—turning corners early, stepping into alcoves, or simply continuing forward like he belongs there.
Because he does.
Beacon is his home now.
That fact makes everything both easier and harder.
He never approaches Beacon Tower.
From a distance, he observes it briefly—just long enough to confirm what he already knows. Too many people. Too many variables. Huntsmen and Huntresses move in and out with purpose, their awareness sharp even when they seem relaxed.
Security there isn't just physical.
It's instinctive.
Erik doesn't test it.
Some risks aren't worth taking.
By the time the sun begins its slow descent, his mental map is nearly complete.
He stops near a quiet overlook and finally allows himself a longer moment to review his notes. The pages tell a clear story—one only someone who walks these paths daily could write.
Beacon Academy, mapped from the inside.
Not perfectly.
But well enough.
He exhales slowly, tension easing from his shoulders.
The report will take time to compile. He knows how to phrase things carefully—how to give enough without giving too much. The payment will come regardless.
Still, a faint discomfort lingers.
Blake Belladonna.
The information he provided about her had been minimal. Surface-level. Routine. Things anyone observant could notice if they spent enough time near Team RWBY.
And yet…
Someone wanted it.
That thought sticks with him longer than he likes.
Erik closes the notebook and slips it away.
For now, the work is done.
He resumes walking, letting himself drift back toward the more populated areas of the academy. The shift in atmosphere is immediate—voices overlap, footsteps echo louder, life returning to full volume.
That's when he sees them.
Team RWBY stands near the central fountain.
And Blake is there.
She looks different—not outwardly, but in the way she carries herself. There's a quiet weariness in her posture, a tension she hasn't fully released yet. Ruby is talking animatedly, arms moving as she speaks, while Yang leans casually against the stone edge of the fountain. Weiss stands nearby, expression attentive but guarded.
Blake keeps her distance, just slightly.
Her eyes lift.
They meet Erik's.
For a brief moment, the world narrows.
Erik doesn't smile. He doesn't wave.
He simply nods.
Blake hesitates—then returns the gesture.
No accusations.
No questions.
No explanations.
The exchange is small, but it holds weight.
Erik continues walking.
"Erik!"
The familiar voice cuts through the noise of the courtyard.
He turns.
Pyrrha is running toward him.
She doesn't slow down as she approaches, and Erik barely has time to shift his stance before she reaches him. Her arms wrap around him with sudden force, momentum pressing her against his chest.
He laughs softly, catching her without effort.
"Hey," he says. "You look like you escaped a siege."
She pulls back just enough to look up at him, cheeks slightly flushed. "I did. If anyone asks me one more question about Oobleck's assignment, I might start charging."
"That would be terrifying," Erik replies dryly.
She smiles—then immediately steps closer again, arms returning to their place around him as if that's where they belong.
"I was looking for you," she says quietly.
"I figured," he answers.
Her grip tightens for a moment before relaxing. "You weren't in your usual places."
"I took a longer walk."
She hums softly, resting her forehead against his chest. "Next time, tell me."
He doesn't hesitate. "Alright."
That's all it takes.
They move together without discussion, drifting toward the quieter parts of the academy. Pyrrha keeps close, fingers laced with his, her presence steady and reassuring.
"You seem… lighter," she says after a moment.
He glances at her. "You say that like it's unusual."
"It is," she admits. "You always look like you're thinking about ten things at once."
"And now?"
She considers him. "Now it feels like you're only thinking about being here."
He doesn't deny it.
They stop near the familiar terrace overlooking the cliffs. The wind is gentle, carrying the scent of grass and stone. Below them, the world stretches out—vast and distant.
Pyrrha sits first, smoothing her skirt before Erik joins her.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
The silence is comfortable.
"I don't like being busy when you're alone," Pyrrha says eventually.
Erik turns his head slightly. "I'm not alone."
"You know what I mean."
"I do."
She shifts closer, her shoulder brushing his. "I trust you. I just… worry."
He studies her expression—open, honest, vulnerable.
"I'm still here," he says.
Her lips curve into a small smile. "I know."
As the sky darkens, Pyrrha leans into him fully, arms wrapping around his waist. The contact is firm, grounding—like she's anchoring herself.
Erik's hands settle against her back, warm and steady.
"I feel safe like this," she murmurs.
The words land heavier than she probably intends.
"So do I," he replies.
She tilts her head up, their foreheads touching. There's no rush in her movements, no urgency—just closeness.
She kisses him slowly.
Erik responds in kind, one hand lifting to cradle the back of her head, thumb brushing gently through her hair. The world beyond them fades, leaving only warmth and quiet certainty.
When they part, she doesn't move away.
She stays.
"I don't need anything else right now," Pyrrha says softly.
Erik rests his chin atop her head.
"Neither do I."
To Be Continued…