#keyalin

The brightness of morning had softened into something warmer, as golden light spilled across polished streets and swept over the elegant curves of the city’s architecture. The market district hummed with its vibrant energy, merchants calling to passing customers, enchanted lanterns swaying gently overhead, the scent of fresh bread and spiced tea drifting between stalls that were crowded with fabrics, jewelry, books, and strange magical curiosities.

Technically, Keyalin had not come here for leisure. He needed replacement wiring for a project he had been working on, and maybe a few specialized tools if he found anything reasonably priced. The problem was that wandering the market inevitably turned into observing the market, which meant he had already spent twenty minutes standing in front of a stall examining the construction of someone’s enchanted lock mechanism while forgetting entirely what he had originally come for. He adjusted the strap of the small tool satchel resting against his side and eventually continued through the crowd, book tucked beneath one arm.

A disturbance caught his attention, a strange feeling of tension. A subtle flaw tugged at the edge of his awareness, enough to pull his gaze toward a nearby produce stall where one of the upper support beams had shifted just enough to place too much strain on the frame. The whole thing leaned at an angle so slight most people wouldn’t notice until it became a problem.

The merchant certainly had not noticed. A stack of fruit crates shifted dangerously, and Keyalin slowed. There was a brief moment where he considered continuing to walk. He did have somewhere to be, sort of.

The stall gave an ominous creak, and he sighed quietly and changed direction. By the time he reached it, one side had already started dipping enough to send several baskets sliding toward the edge. The merchant turned too late, already reaching instinctively for a crate that was definitely going to fall.

Except somehow, it didn’t. The sliding baskets slowed just enough to stop awkwardly against one another instead of tumbling onto the street. Like momentum had briefly forgotten what it was supposed to do.

The merchant blinked in confusion. “Oh, Light. Not again…”

“It’s the support joint,” Keyalin said quietly, already crouching near the side of the stall before he could fully talk himself out of it. “Too much weight on one side.”

“You know repairs?”

“A little.” That was an understatement.

He set his book carefully aside, pulled a few small tools from his satchel, and examined the warped bracket holding part of the frame together. It had shifted unevenly, likely loosened over time. A few careful adjustments later, reinforced with a spare fastening piece from his own supplies, and the structure visibly straightened.

The merchant stared. “You just carry repair materials?”

Keyalin hesitated. “…Usually.”

The merchant laughed once, relieved more than anything. “Well, you just saved me from losing half my inventory.”

Keyalin stood, brushing dust from his gloves. “It probably needed fixing a while ago, you might want to redistribute the weight a little.” Before gratitude could become prolonged social interaction, he retrieved his book and abruptly continued walking.

Unfortunately, the market apparently had other plans for him. He had barely made it another street over when someone nearby bumped into another passerby. A delicately wrapped parcel slipped free. Glass. Keyalin noticed the sound immediately, the shift in weight, the inevitable angle of the fall. He reacted without thinking. The parcel struck the stone, but not hard enough to shatter. It hit one corner, tipped awkwardly, rolled once, then settled perfectly intact against the edge of a flower cart.

The owner of the package stared. “Oh, thank goodness.” They crouched quickly, checking inside before exhaling in relief. “No idea how that survived.”

Neither did anyone else.

Keyalin, already halfway through walking past, very deliberately kept moving. Just a coincidence. The city liked coincidence around him more often than statistics suggested.

Later, after finally finding the wiring he had actually come for, he stopped near one of the tea vendors tucked between brighter market stalls. While waiting for his order, he noticed an older woman struggling to gather spilled sewing supplies after her bag split open. Needles scattered, thread rolled in several directions, small metal tools skittered across the pavement.

Before she could fully crouch, several of the items simply stopped. Not abruptly, just in an oddly convenient manner. A spool rolled gently against the edge of her shoe instead of disappearing downhill. A needle landed flat instead of vanishing into a crack. A small pair of scissors spun once and settled harmlessly against a market post. Keyalin crouched automatically to help gather everything.

“You don’t have to…” she began.

“It’s fine,” he spoke quietly. 

Together they collected the scattered supplies. Once everything had been returned to her repaired bag, the woman smiled warmly. “Well, you seem to appear exactly where you’re needed.”

Keyalin paused at that. The comment caught him off-guard, because she wasn’t wrong. “…I think I just notice things.”

The woman hummed, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

By the time he left the market, evening light had begun settling over Silvermoon City, lanterns glowed overhead as merchants packed away their stalls. Keyalin paused near the edge of the market and glanced down at the collection of things that had accumulated in his hands: The wiring he had actually needed, tea he had forgotten he purchased, three unnecessary tools, and bread someone had insisted he take after thanking him for fixing a stall.

Objectively, this had been an inefficient trip. And yet, as he turned toward home, the city seemed to settle around him in small, quiet ways. A cart wheel that had been wobbling finally straightened. A stack of books in a nearby window stopped leaning quite so precariously. Somewhere overhead, a lantern swayed once and steadied.

It was definitely not a coincidence.

Silvermoon was already under the hush of night when Aerden finally stepped into his apartment, locking the door behind him. His day had been a blur of working out, followed by advanced techniques and theoretical triage scenarios. His mind and body were so tired that he didn’t fully register what he was seeing at first.

Keyalin was seated at the kitchen table with some of his tools neatly arranged beside him, book in hand, and posture straight but relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed for him. Aerden squinted suspiciously, eyes tracking over his features before locking in on his face. “…What the heck happened to your face?”

Both of Keyalin’s eyes were ringed in red and purple, the bridge of his nose still faintly swollen despite having been cleanly set. Keyalin glanced up, calm as ever. “You’re extra late tonight.”

“Key.” Aerden’s tone was flat.

“A drunk man on Murder Row.”

Aerden’s bag hit the floor. “He did that?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I stood there.”

“You stood there?” Aerden closed the distance between them quickly. “Did he jump you?”

“He swung. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Reading?”

“Maybe.” Keyalin was definitely reading, it was his constant state of being.

Aerden stared at him, incredulous. “Why didn’t you message me?”

“You were at your healing thing.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Keyalin replied quietly.

Aerden moved closer, hands hovering near Keyalin’s face without touching. The swelling had gone down somewhat, but not enough for his liking. “You reset it yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.” Asking others for help wasn’t Key’s strong suit.

“The clinic gave me something for the pain.”

“Yeah I can tell,” Aerden muttered. “Lean back.”

Keyalin obeyed without protest. Aerden stepped between his knees, tilting his chin gently to assess the alignment. His expression tightened, he was suddenly mad at himself for not being there for his friend. But also maybe Keyalin shouldn’t have been reading while wandering Murder Row.

A soft teal glow bloomed beneath his palms as he began to work, the color shifting naturally toward a light green as it sank into bruised tissue. The air warmed subtly around them as energy weaved through inflamed vessels and tender cartilage. The swelling receded further under his touch, and the discoloration faded slightly. There would still be some bruising.

“What were you thinking?” Aerden wondered aloud.

“That I could end it in seconds,” Keyalin answered. “And that I didn’t need to. I thought about every way I could put him on the ground. It would have been so easy. I knew exactly where to hit, and exactly how much force to use. …I didn’t though.”

The green deepened briefly as Aerden corrected fine fractures along the bridge of his nose, smoothing imperfections with careful attention. A silence settled between them.

“I would’ve broken something,” Aerden admitted.

“I know.”

“I might not have stopped there.”

“I know that too.”

The magic softened as the healing finished its work, and only faint tenderness remained along with the bruising already present, now with a softer edge. Aerden exhaled slowly. “You should’ve told me as soon as it happened.”

Keyalin’s mouth twitched faintly, it was time for a subject change. “People are wondering why you’ve been difficult to find.”

Aerden withdrew his hands fully now, the glow fading into nothing. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yes.”

“With extra training, and the others.”

“Yes.” The repetition wasn’t accusatory, just observant.

Aerden leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. “They understand. -You- understand.”

“I know, I do.”

“It’s easier.”

“I know.”

A pause before Keyalin asked quietly, “Are you avoiding them?” 

“No.” Aerden answered a little too quickly.

Another pause.

“…I don’t know how to fit back into that version of my life,” Aerden admitted. “Everything before feels far away, like it belongs to someone who didn’t know as much.”

Keyalin studied him. “You’re not that different.”

“I am. You didn’t know me then.” Aerden let out a slow breath. “I don’t want to walk into a room and feel like I’m being measured against who I used to be.”

“You won’t be measured.” Silence settled again, longer this time. “...I wasn’t upset about getting hit,” Keyalin said after a moment. “I was surprised at how calm I was. Years ago I would’ve run. This time I just calculated, and chose not to act.”

Aerden looked at him more carefully. “That’s growth.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Keyalin held his gaze. “Then maybe learning how to be here again counts as growth too.”

Dammit. 

The words landed gently, not as criticism but as truth. Aerden swallowed, something tight easing just slightly in his chest. He stepped forward again, brushing his thumb lightly along the bridge of Keyalin’s nose in one final check. “You’re healing fine.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, understanding each other without explanation. While they hadn’t known each other for a long time, there would always be a shared understanding between those who went through a massive life change together. They stood in that quiet space between who they were and who they were becoming.

“I’m trying,” Aerden said finally.

“I know,” Keyalin replied.

~~ A short time after the scourge invasion ~~

He leaves what was left of Silvermoon City before dawn, slipping into the formation of volunteers and soldiers gathering near the gates. No one questions him, nor his age. There are too many faces, too many hollow expressions, too many people pretending they are going for practical reasons instead of personal ones. They say they’re searching for survivors, which was a partial truth. They are searching for their loved ones, and to see what remains of their homes, if anything at all.

It wasn’t a good idea, but what else could he do? What else did he have left?

The Scourge had not fully withdrawn from the woods, that much is clear even before they reach the outer treeline. The forest feels unsettling, too quiet in some places, then abruptly alive with distant movement that causes hands to tighten around weapons. The air carries the heavy, sweet-sick scent of decay beneath the sharper sting of smoke. Every snapped twig makes someone turn, and every shadow seems to shift a little too slowly.

When Tranquillien finally comes into view, it looks like something out of a fever dream. Dark and heavy smoke rises in uneven columns. Several buildings are still burning outright, flames licking through collapsed roofs and broken windows. Others sag inward, charred skeletons waiting for gravity to finish its job. The sky above the town is stained a sickening gray. It's worse than he had expected. Some buildings remain, a small win. Not enough to get his hopes up.

The group breaks apart quickly, voices calling out names, checking doorways, pulling at debris that might conceal someone still breathing. Keyalin does not call out, he doesn’t trust his voice not to break right now. He moves toward his neighborhood on instinct. He knows the path by heart, or he once did. Everything looks so different now. The road is coated in ash, soft enough that his boots leave distinct impressions. The outer line of houses, including his own, took the brunt of whatever swept through first. Several structures are reduced to little more than cracked beams and half-fallen walls.

He sees where his home should be before he allows himself to register it.

There is no house. 

There’s only the outline of foundation stones and a heap of collapsed timber still burning in its center. Heat rolls off the wreckage in waves, distorting the air around it. The front wall is gone entirely, the upper floor has caved inward, and what remains shifts and crackles as embers settle.

He steps forward anyway.

The heat forces him to squint, smoke clawing at his lungs. He maps his memories onto the ruin. Four steps in would have been the main room, five more, and he would have reached the table where they all sat and had meals. He can almost see it: the careful placement of silverware, the little projects his father would bring to the table, his mother bustling around to ensure everyone had enough food, and his sisters’ laughter filling the space.

Now there is only fire and ash.

A beam collapses inward with a shower of sparks, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too numb, nothing here feels real. Did he even survive? Was this some kind of nightmare limbo? He crouches near what should have been the center of the room, reaching carefully into the debris despite the heat. His fingers brush something metallic and he pulls it free, a warped fragment of what might once have been a tool. It bends under slight pressure, twisted beyond recognition.

He stares at it for a long moment before letting it fall back into the ash.

There are no bodies here. 

That thought lands heavily in his chest. What if they were alive? No. That was unlikely. What if they were still wandering out in the woods, no longer themselves? That was more logical. He swallowed the lump in his throat. His parents had insisted on staying longer. He had argued. He had wanted to remain too. He had wanted to protect what was theirs. He didn’t want to be left alone.

But he had left. He is alone.

The knowledge settles into him with a painful finality. He had obeyed. He had done what was asked of him. The logic doesn’t quiet the ache. Somewhere beneath the smoke and heat, beneath the ringing in his ears and the shouted orders from the road behind him, he can feel it: A futile yearning for one more ordinary evening in this space. One more lesson. One more shared meal. One more moment that had seemed so unremarkable at the time. One more anything.

Behind him, someone calls out sharply. There’s movement near the treeline, the threat is still present. The woods still hold things that will not stay dead. What if it was – no. He couldn’t think that way, not about them. 

He rises slowly and the roof gives way completely, collapsing into itself in a rush of sparks and embers. By morning, there will be nothing left but stone and ash. He turns away before the fire finishes consuming what remains. Ash clings to him as he steps back into the street, carrying the scent with him. 

He does not look back again. Behind him, Tranquillien continues to burn.

The apartment building’s front door had been sticking. Again. Not exactly broken, just old and stubborn from being neglected for a little too long. The latch caught unevenly, forcing people to shoulder their way inside. Every few days someone complained about it in passing before shrugging and living with the inconvenience. The landlord had done nothing, no surprise there. It needed to be replaced, but that wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

So Keyalin fixed it. Again.

He sat crouched near the entrance in the late afternoon light, tools spread neatly beside him while he adjusted the warped hinge for what was probably the third time in as many months. The building itself was old and charming in a way, but also terribly inconvenient in other ways. The sort of place constantly threatening to fall into minor disrepair if no one paid attention. Most people tolerated the problems because the rent was cheap. Well, cheaper, by Silvermoon City standards.

Keyalin had never been especially good at tolerating broken things, so he was happy to fix it himself. The door gave one final reluctant creak before settling smoothly into place. He tested the handle twice, then once more for certainty, watching the latch settle properly with satisfaction. 

“You know, the landlord is supposed to do that,” a voice chimed in behind him.

He looked up to find his pretty neighbor standing in the hallway, groceries balanced against one hip. She smiled easily, familiar enough now that the interaction no longer startled him, even though he still never entirely knew what to do with her casual conversation. Especially from someone so obviously out of his league. “I had some free time, and it’s not like the landlord was gonna fix it…” he mumbled after a pause.

Her mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh. “See, that is exactly why everyone likes you.”

Keyalin frowned faintly, but also turned a slight shade of pink. “...I just fixed the door.”

“No, you help people. Without ever asking for anything in return.” She smiled.

Before he could figure out what response was expected there, she disappeared upstairs with a small wave, leaving him standing awkwardly in the hallway holding a wrench and the vague suspicion he had somehow missed part of the conversation. That happened more often than he liked.

Later that evening, after retreating to the apartment with every intention of quietly reading and avoiding additional social interaction, someone knocked at the door. Another knock followed almost immediately, lighter this time, but obviously impatient and suggesting familiarity. When he opened it, one of the younger tenants stood there holding a gaming device.

“Well, you’re good at everything, right?” The teen held out the device with a pleading look.”My mum is gonna kill me if she knew I broke it.”

Keyalin wasn’t seeking more company, but he couldn’t say no. The wiring had come loose, nothing particularly difficult, and at least the repair itself took less than fifteen minutes. The kid lingered nearby while he worked, talking easily like some people did when silence made them uncomfortable. Keyalin contributed occasional responses when appropriate, but mostly focused on the repair.

“You make this look easy,” the teen said eventually, peeking over his shoulder.

“It’s not difficult.”

“For you. Seriously, though. Everyone says if something’s broken, you just ask Keyalin. You’re a lifesaver!”

The words settled strangely, because fixing things was easy. Or easier, at least. Machines and broken hinges made sense. Wires and structural problems and mechanical failures all followed certain rules. If something stopped working, there was usually a reason, and if there was a reason, there was something you could do about it.

People were different.

Conversations rarely made sense to him until several hours after they happened, and sometimes they never made sense to him. Friendships seemed to form through invisible rules he had somehow never learned, and half the time he still found himself wondering if people genuinely liked him or simply found him useful. Even now, after years of military life, roommates, neighbors, and routines that should have made things easier, there remained a disconnect he never entirely figured out how to fix.

The teenager left a few minutes later with a repaired device and an enthusiastic thank you, leaving the apartment quiet again. Keyalin stood in the kitchen afterward longer than necessary, absently drying his hands while staring at nothing in particular. The compliment should not have bothered him.

‘You’re good at everything.’

He wasn’t. Not really.

There was a part of him that still felt inadequate in ways he rarely talked about, because the problem sounded unreasonable once spoken aloud. He had a great military career. People trusted him. He was dependable and useful in ways that made sense for his position. Yet outside of fixing problems with his hands, life often felt like something everyone else had received instructions for that he somehow missed.

He thought about conversations that ended awkwardly, and about the unsettling way he often realized he cared about people only after his routine shifted around their absence. He also thought about the doubts he still felt around simple things like joining a group conversation or knowing when someone genuinely wanted his company. He could repair a communication device down to its smallest internal components, but somehow he still struggled to understand why talking to people felt harder than rebuilding machinery.

Maybe people were more difficult to understand because they could not be repaired, at least not in a way that made sense to him. It had been a struggle as far back as he could remember, yet it came so naturally to the rest of his family. Clearly, that gene had skipped right over him.

Standing alone in his apartment as the building and city noises seeped faintly through the walls, he realized he wasn't sure if understanding would have made anything better.

The front door to their apartment complex had been sticking for weeks. It scraped against the stone and refused to latch unless someone forced it shut. The landlord had made vague promises, but nothing had changed. 

Keyalin was never one to wait around on someone else to fix something when he could do it himself. Being useful was key, a phrase that worked on a variety of levels. So he knelt on the front steps with his small tool roll spread neatly beside him, sleeves pushed up, and hair falling slightly into his eyes as he worked. The top hinge was warped, the screws chewed the wood thin from repeated strain. This was an easy fix.

He was focused enough that he didn’t notice her at first. “Are you repairing it?” 

The feminine voice startled him just enough that the screwdriver slipped from his grip and clattered onto the ground. “O-oh…ummm…yes,” he said quickly, not looking up. “It was misaligned.”

“Oh.”

Silence stretched a moment too long, he became aware that she hadn’t moved on. When he finally glanced up, he immediately regretted it. She was pretty. Leaning lightly against the wall with her arms folded, she watched him with open curiosity.

He dropped his gaze almost instantly back to the hinge and scrambled to pick up the dropped screwdriver. “It shouldn’t take long,” he added, because that felt like something one was supposed to say in this scenario.

“That’s kind of you,” she smiled at him.

“It needed to be done,” He cleared his throat, attempting to focus.

She smiled at that. He didn’t see it, he was concentrating very hard on not stripping the screw head and on not looking at her again. “You didn’t have to.”

He swallowed. “It didn’t make sense to leave it broken.”

“Right. Of course.”

He adjusted the hinge plate by a fraction, testing the swing. Still catching.

“You’re very…capable,” she said, her voice a bit airy.

His hands stalled. “That’s..” He cleared his throat again. “It’s only minor maintenance.”

“I think it’s impressive.”

The compliment hit him harder than it should have. He felt hot, was it hot? It was definitely hot. He focused intensely on tightening the screw to exactly the correct tension. “It’s nothing, really.”

She stepped a little closer. Not invading his space, but near enough that he could feel her presence more distinctly. “You always take care of things like this?”

“When they require it.”

“And what takes care of you?”

The question made him blink. “I’m not…malfunctioning,” he said after a moment.

She laughed softly. He risked another glance up, confused by the reaction. Their eyes met for half a second before he looked away again, far too quickly. He tested the door and this time it swung cleanly and latched with a satisfying click. “There, it should function properly now.”

She opened it experimentally. It moved smoothly this time. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s aligned.”

She studied him instead of the door. “You know, you’re kind of cute.”

He froze. Cute. That was not a category he was prepared to process. “I…umm…” He faltered. “The hinge was uneven.” That was a terrible response.

“I’m not talking about the hinge.”

His brain attempted to follow that thread and failed.

She laughed again, softer this time. “You’re very earnest, it’s sweet.”

He stared at the ground like it might offer clarification. It did not. “I was only correcting a minor issue,” his voice quieter than before.

“I know.” She took a step back toward the stairs. “Thanks for fixing it. See you around, cutie.” And then she was gone, heading back up toward her apartment.

He remained standing there for several seconds, tool still in hand. Cute. He replayed the interaction carefully. Hmmm. He looked at the door and tested it once more. It latched perfectly. He gathered his tools and went inside, telling himself the warmth in his face was just from exertion.

Was she flirting with him? No, probably not. She was definitely just being friendly.

...After the invasion...

The ballroom still smelled faintly of perfume beneath the smoke. Not too long ago, extravagant galas had been hosted here, so he had been told. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden light across polished marble floors, colorful silks adorned the walls, and laughter and the orchestra's music filled the space with sound and warmth. Now the chandeliers hung dark, the silks torn down, and laughter was replaced with the sound of grief. Cots covered the floor from wall to wall, covered in blankets of mismatched colors, and the raised dais where nobles once stood to give their toasts had become a ration station.

Keyalin stayed near the far edge, close to one of the cracked pillars. It wasn’t exactly private, but it gave him a wall at his back and a clear view of the doors, even though he had little to guard. When he left Tranquillien, he had only the clothing on his back and a small tool roll. That was all he managed to carry out of everything that had been his life. The rest had burned. There was no house in Tranquillien, no belongings worth salvaging from the ashes, no family left to contact, and no money.

Meals were uncertain for a while. The fields had burned or rotted, and the animals had been slaughtered or scattered into the forests. Keyalin volunteered wherever he could, hauling debris, bracing unstable walls, repairing broken carts, even reinforcing doorframes that had been kicked in during the chaos. He did not ask for payment, he just wanted to keep busy, be useful, and maybe get a meal in return.

The city itself had stalled. Workshops were closed, trade routes were severed, schools were shut down, and markets stood quiet aside from some desperate bartering. Everyone was in survival mode, and planning for next week felt indulgent when tomorrow’s meal wasn’t certain. The withdrawal from the loss of the Sunwell hit some worse than others, Keyalin was one of the luckier ones. The youngest and oldest suffered most, and many did not survive the slow decline. Their population couldn’t handle anymore loss.

He moved through it all with steady hands, there was no time to grieve just yet. When a water pump jammed, he disassembled it and cleaned the grit from the valves. When a section of ceiling sagged, he scavenged beams and made a crude but reliable brace. When someone’s lantern wouldn’t hold a steady flame, he adjusted the housing until it burned once again. He fixed what he could, but he could not fix the crops, nor could he fix the way people flinched at sudden noises, and he certainly could not bring the dead back to life.

Clothing donations began to appear in neat stacks along the ballroom wall. People brought what they could spare, mostly what their dead no longer needed. At first, he refused because it felt wrong, but what other choice did he have? One evening, a woman with a hollow expression pressed a few button-up shirts into his hands. “These were my husband’s. He was about your height.” He accepted them with a solemn nod.

Over the next few weeks, he replaced what was torn when needed. A shirt too small was swapped for one with broader shoulders, and boots that blistered his heels were traded for a pair that fit better. None of it matched, and none of it was chosen by him.

One night, while washing dirt from his hands in a shallow basin, he caught sight of his reflection on the surface of the water. The coat was from someone’s brother’s, the shirt beneath had belonged to someone’s father. The boots had come from a pile with the laces already tied in a way that fit their former owner. He realized that he was wearing the dead, layered in them, and kept warm by their absence.

He looked down at the careful stitching along the cuffs of his sleeve, briefly wondering about the lives those hands had lived inside this fabric. Whether they had danced beneath these chandeliers when they still shone. Whether they had ever imagined ending as a folded offering in a makeshift shelter. The thought threatened to unravel something already so fragile within his chest. He pushed it away instead; there was no time for that. Fabric was fabric, and warmth was warmth. The living required it more than the dead.

At night, lying on his back beneath a ceiling that had once reflected crystal light, he traced the cracks above him, calculating load distribution. The ballroom would hold, the stress fractures were old and mostly cosmetic. The structure was sound.

He wished the same could be said for everything else.

Doubt crept in during small moments. How long could this last? How long could he trade labor for scraps? What was the next step when the entire system had ground to a halt? Rebuilding required materials, materials required trade, and trade required stability. He had none of those things. Before, there was constant forward motion in his life, and now he felt caught in a standstill, uncertain whether forward was even an option anymore.

But he was still here.

In the mornings, he rose before most of the others, folded his blanket, dressed in someone else’s clothing, then reported to whoever looked the most overwhelmed and asked what needed to be done. He kept his movements efficient, conserving energy the way others conserved food. After a while, people had begun seeking him out. “Ask the quiet one,” someone would say. “He’ll know how to fix it.” He didn’t always know how to fix things, but he would figure it out because there was no one else to do it. Each repair was small, and none of them changed the broader reality, but he did what he could because stopping meant thinking and grieving, and he could not afford that.

On evenings when food was scarce, someone pressed half their portion into his hands with a grateful shrug. He accepted without protest and split it again when he could. He still did not know what came next. The city functioned at only its most basic level, essential tasks took priority while anything beyond survival was postponed indefinitely. He wasn’t sure if this life was sustainable or how long survival mode could hold before hardening into something permanent. He understood structures, though. You stabilize first, then prevent further collapse, next assess what remains, and finally rebuild. They were still in that first step.

Lying beneath the darkened chandeliers, wrapped in a dead man’s coat, he listened to the soft murmur of displaced lives while easing into a restless sleep. He was still breathing, still here, and for now, that had to be enough.

TW: Blood, violence

The punch is sloppy. That’s his first coherent thought. Not pain, not surprise, not even anger. Sloppy.

It comes from his blind side, a blur of movement, the stench of alcohol, and the sharp crack of knuckles against his nose. His book slips from his hands and hits the cobblestones of Murder Row with a dull thud. Then for half a heartbeat, everything narrows.

His weight shifts automatically. Left foot back. Knees loose. Chin tucked. His center of gravity drops in a way that feels frighteningly natural, and his hands half-lift. Not in a defensive twitch, not even in startled recoil, but in a controlled recalibration of body and mind.

He maps the man in an instant: Off-balance. Intoxicated. Slower reaction time. Right shoulder already overextended from the swing. Knees slightly unstable. Pulse visible in the throat. He knows exactly how to end this.

A pivot and hook would dislocate the shoulder, and a strike to the side of the knee would drop him permanently. Two fingers and pressure in the right place would efficiently crush the windpipe.  

The calculations arrive clean and cold. And that’s what terrifies him.

Years ago he would have instinctively run, maybe find somewhere to hide himself away. The moment a stranger’s voice rose too sharply, he would have retreated with a racing heart and shame burning hot within his chest.

Younger Keyalin survived by disappearing. Now his first instinct is elimination.

The man staggers back a step while laughing, clearly expecting retaliation and outrage. Wanting something loud and messy he can escalate for his own amusement.

Keyalin’s fist tightens. He can feel the training in his bones. The hours drilled into muscle memory. The way his body is primed to neutralize the threat. It would be too easy.

The drunk sways forward again, raising his hands in a loose, taunting posture. “What? Not so smart without your little book?”

The insult barely registers and all Keyalin can hear is the quiet voice of instruction layered over this new, natural instinct. Assess, disable, then move on. He sees the future in brief, fleeting flashes. The man on the ground, gasping. The sickening crack of something that won’t heal right. Then guards arriving and questions asked. His record examined and his training scrutinized. He would win, and it would cost him. Not legally, perhaps, not if he framed it as defense, but something inside him would shift.

He forces himself to inhale slowly, a counter to the surge of adrenaline burning through his system. He unclenches his fist, a choice that feels harder than the punch itself. He straightens instead of advancing and allows his posture to loosen. The man scoffs and mutters something under his breath, eventually staggering away in search of someone more reactive.

Keyalin does not follow.

He stands there for several seconds after the footsteps fade, pulse still pounding in his ears. His face aches, and he could feel the blood now dripping down his chin. There will be a bruise by morning, he’s had worse. He brings a hand up and runs his thumb along the bridge of his nose, testing. 

Crooked. He doesn’t hesitate.

Bracing two fingers against one side, he snaps it back into place with a sharp, efficient motion. Fresh pain flares white hot, but he doesn’t so much as hiss. He wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, checks that everything aligns the way it should, then retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket to stop the blood from dripping. He bends and retrieves his book carefully with his free hand.

His hands are shaking. Not from fear, as they would have years ago. From how ready he was. That is the part he cannot immediately settle.

He clutches the worn book against his chest, fidgeting with the torn edge. He looks down the street where the man disappeared. If this had happened years ago, he would have run home humiliated, then would have replayed it for weeks in his mind.

Now he stands upright in the same place, face sore, pride intact. Stronger. More dangerous. He doesn’t know how he feels about the exchange. He doesn’t regret not fighting back. But he cannot ignore the truth that flickers uncomfortably within: He didn’t refrain because he was afraid. He refrained because he knew exactly how much damage he could do. And that is a very different kind of power.

Silvermoon City still felt strangely quiet. Aerden stood in the middle of his apartment with his duffel bag still slung over one shoulder, staring at the space like it belonged to someone else. The windows were open, allowing in the glow of the city’s bright lights and the distant murmur of those coming and going, but none of it settled his nerves. This place used to feel like a refuge to him, and now it felt as if he were trespassing in an old memory.

Dajjalen’s absence was unmistakable, not that he had seen him much while the two lived together. Aerden was glad the older man had moved onto something better, but losing that presence had left a hollow feeling he hadn’t anticipated. The two had gone through so much together.

Yet, Keyalin’s presence filled that gap, just in a different way. His few things were tucked neatly into corners, tools were arranged with care, boots placed where they wouldn’t be in the way, and gear maintained to near perfection. Keyalin himself moved through the apartment much the same way, staying out of the way and being quiet and observant. Where Aerden felt restless in the silence, Keyalin seemed to settle into it easier, always content to watch and listen. He had been like that during training as well. Extremely capable in combat, methodical with anything technical or mechanical, but never one to waste words.

They were both stuck in the same strange limbo. Training had ended, but it had yet to let go of them. There were no drills at dawn, no constant evaluations, no hours upon hours of heavy training, but their bodies and minds hadn’t caught up to that reality. Aerden found himself pacing without meaning to, while Keyalin would sit dismantling and reassembling some small piece of equipment.

It had changed them both. Two years of pressure, precision, and expectation left marks you couldn’t see. They didn’t talk about it much, there was no need to. Some evenings they shared a meal in near silence, the kind that would have been awkward with anyone else. But with each other, it was familiar and comforting. They had spent the last two years relying on one another in ways that didn’t require explanation, and that bond hadn’t vanished just because the training had ended.

But the hardest part were the people. Friends he had barely seen in two years greeted him with warmth and relief, but conversations stumbled. They asked polite questions about training, and he gave equally polite answers that skimmed the surface. He didn’t know how to explain the rest of it, like the exhaustion that lived in his bones, and the way his thoughts always drifted toward contingencies. The quiet weight of responsibility that was never fully lifted.

Some relationships strained under the distance. He had changed, they had changed, that much was inevitable in two years. He could feel it in the pauses, the careful way people spoke around him, as if unsure which version of Aerden they were talking to. He wasn’t always sure himself.

At night, he lay awake in his own bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how he used to fill his time. Comics sat untouched on the shelf and his sketchpad remained closed, even his skateboard held cobwebs from sitting in the corner of his room. He wondered where that boy had gone, the one who laughed easily and wore his heart on his sleeve, and whether he was still in there somewhere. Surely, he was, he just needed to remember how to get back there.

He was trying to figure out how to exist outside of schedules and expectations, how to be a regular person again instead of a trainee. Normal life wouldn’t return all at once. He had been told this many times about how difficult it could be, but now facing it head on, it was as if he weren’t prepared at all. For now, Aerden took comfort in the quiet understanding he shared with Keyalin, two people shaped by the same experience, and both equally unsure of how to step back into anything that felt normal.