Before Lindsay and Kraft reached the limits of the main town, the sun had begun its slow decline. Cobblestone streets to the castle shone in sunlight, and spires in the distance stretched long fingers of shadow over sloping rooftops. Their footsteps echoed, rhythmic but tense.
The walk had been quiet. Kraft's hands were clenched into fists, his jaw chewing over questions he hadn't yet had the nerve to voice. Lindsay was impassive. Her eyes never left the castle ahead of them, but she wasn't walking so much as taking measurements.
When they reached the outer gate, the silence snapped.
"Why didn't we stop him?" Kraft's voice was strained, contained.
Lindsay didn't even look around. "Because we couldn't."
"That's not an answer."
She paused, then looked at him—just briefly, but it was enough to chill the air. "It's the only one you're getting."
Kraft inhaled through his nose. She outranked him. Not by much, but enough. He knew better than to push when her tone slipped into that register.
The castle gate hissed open—ancient technology, retooled and rebuilt to accept new circuits. The guards who stood watch outside did not question them. Their salutes were lazy, reflex, tired.
And that was all, the two officers separating paths—Lindsay to the central spire, Kraft into the twisting streets that branched like veins into residential sections of the city.
Lindsay's boots rang out crisply on the marble halls, each step firm and clear. She passed tapestries and unblinking sentries with no hesitation. Her objective was straightforward.
At the end of the hall was a massive door, framed in charred oak and reinforced with metal. No guards. No crest.
She did not knock.
The door creaked wide. Inside, the air reeked of incense—acrid myrrh, charred parchment, old dust. The walls were lined with shelves and they were full of scrolls, books, and devices too delicate to describe.
A man sat at the center of it all. Mid-fifties. His hair was grey, pulled back, spectacles sitting just above a long scar down his cheek. He looked at Lindsay slowly, fingers still suspended with a quill over parchment.
"I hope this isn't a courtesy call."
Lindsay stepped forward. "I have information. About the lost experiment."
The quill didn't move. His eyes narrowed. "Say that again."
"I saw a boy today. Not a man. A boy. But the tension in the air changed when he walked by. It was—"
She bit back an oath. Her hands clenched into fists.
"It was wrong. Or right. I don't know which."
He leaned back in his chair, entwining his fingers together. "Tell me more about him."
"Thirteen. Silent. Eyes like—" she faltered "—like they didn't belong on a kid. Like he didn't belong in our world."
There was silence between them.
"Go on," he said finally.
"He shoplifted food from a store. Walked out. Didn't run. Didn't hide. When I asked him his name, he didn't say anything. Told me his age only."
"And?"
"I let him go."
The second silence was colder.
"You know what that suggests?"
"Yes."
"And yet you did nothing."
"I couldn't."
"No," he said, his head moving forward. "You didn't want to."
Lindsay looked at him, her voice low. "No. I understood that we weren't supposed to. There is a difference."
His eyes lingered on her for a fraction of a moment longer, then drifted again over to the parchment.
"Get some rest, officer."
Kraft's door slammed closed behind him with a dull boom that echoed down the hall. His mother stopped from the table, a mug of hot tea cradled in her hands. She raised an eyebrow.
"You're late."
He slung his coat over the nearest chair. "Something did happen."
She pointed to the chair facing her. "Sit. Tell me."
He hesitated—then sat down.
"We saw a kid in the village. Just walking by like nothing was any of his business. Robe, hood, the whole broody thing. Went into a shop, picked up some supplies, came out."
His mother sipped her tea, looking at him. She did not interrupt.
"Lindsay saw it. She stood up to him. He didn't even blink. Said one word. 'Thirteen.' Then walked away."
"And?"
"She let him go."
His voice cracked on the final syllable.
There was a long silence.
"She let him go," he repeated, more softly. "Didn't even try it."
His mother glanced at him. "You trust her?"
Kraft blinked. "I—what?"
"I said, do you trust her?"
He lowered his eyes. Thought for a long time.
".Yeah."
She nodded once. "Then trust her judgment. Lindsay sees more than most. Always has. If she froze, it wasn't from fear."
Kraft leaned back in his chair, the tension still lingering in his shoulders. "That's what scares me."
His mother smiled softly, a strange sadness in it. "Good. Keep that fear. You'll need it."
Far below in the village, beneath the arch of bent arms and gentle rustling leaves, the boy moved quietly through the thickets. Bars of golden light from the lowering sun filtered through the trees to fall upon his path. Insects hummed. Birds settled back into their nests again. The woods sighed around him.
No one followed. None would venture to.
His footing never wavered.
He reached a clearing and paused. Before him stood a small wooden house—plain, hand-built, weathered but well-maintained. A lantern burned faintly inside.
He opened the door.
"Brother!"
The voice was soft, high-pitched. A small girl rushed into view, barefoot, dress slightly too big for her frame. Her hair was tangled. Her face brightened at the sight of him.
"You're back!"
He nodded once at her. His hand reached out—cautious, practiced—and smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Do you want to eat?" she asked, tugging on his sleeve.
He moved into the kitchen in front of her. Quiet. Focused.
He pulled ingredients off a shelf—simple things: dried vegetables, stale rice, stockpiled broth. His hands were quiet competent, the kind that accrue with doing something a lot of times. There were no words said.
The food was ready in minutes.
He put it down in front of her and sat on the other side of the table. He didn't eat.
She dug in with abandon, humming happily as she chewed. Her joy was untroubled, uncomplicated. Unaware of the world beyond the forest.
He watched her.
His expression didn't shift, but something slipped behind his eyes. A small breath. A crack in the mask.
For the first time that day, something human seeped into his stare.
Something almost like peace.