Roselys had arranged their notes across the table, the candle throwing a small circle of light over her writing. Vencian watched her from the opposite side. The sound of distant chatter seeped through the walls of Miss Perdil's house, mixed with the faint smell of stew.

Roselys looked up first. "I think we have most of the surface customs sorted. But something else came up in the records."

Vencian leaned forward. "What kind of something?"

She tapped a line in her notes. "The Erythrai clan's texts mention a figure who guided them. Someone they believed could sense what was coming—good harvests, disasters, wars. They called him the Seer of Shales. Every generation had one."

Vencian studied the ink marks. "A prophetic leader?"

"In practice, yes. They didn't call him that. He was described as the one who 'told them when the world turned.'" She leaned back slightly. "If that record's authentic, the clan didn't act without him. He directed their migrations and decisions."

"And you think there's one here?"

She met his eyes. "I'm certain of it. The names match across the old records and the current census. Different spellings, same roots. There's someone in this village filling that role."

Vencian frowned. "That could be coincidence. Many isolated communities have someone they treat as a seer or elder. It's not rare."

"You forget," Roselys said, "I don't believe in coincidences."

Her tone left no space for argument. Vencian stayed quiet.

She added, "I tried to meet him today. They said he's ill. His grandnephew promised an appointment tomorrow."

Vencian rested his hand on the table. "Convenient timing."

"Or deliberate caution," she said. "People like that don't receive strangers easily. Especially when they sense outsiders looking for patterns they've kept hidden for centuries."

He regarded her for a moment. "You sound like you've dealt with that before."

"I have." Her eyes moved back to the notes. "In Faranth, the locals buried their artifacts under a grain cellar. Claimed it was a family heirloom. It took me a week to get them to admit it was a ritual site. The trick is patience and pretending to care about their stories before you start asking the right questions."

"That's experience speaking."

"You learn fast when your funding depends on results." She gave a small shrug. "At least here, the people aren't hostile. Cautious, yes, but not closed off. That's progress."

There was a soft knock on the door. A woman's voice followed. "You two must be starving by now. Dinner's ready."

Roselys stood. "That would be Miss Perdil."

Vencian followed her into the main room. The woman greeting them was in her early thirties, her auburn hair tied loosely behind her head. She smiled wide enough to show dimples. "You must be the siblings from the capital. I'm Perdil. Welcome to my home."

Vencian nodded slightly. Roselys thanked her.

Perdil waved a hand. "Oh, formality won't do here. Sit, both of you. My boy's already asleep upstairs, and the stew's still warm."

The table was simple but clean. The stew smelled rich with herbs. Vencian hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first spoonful.

Perdil talked freely while they ate. Her husband had died three winters ago from fever. The house, built by his grandfather, had two floors and more rooms than she used. She spoke about the festival preparations, the weather, and her son's endless questions about city life.

Roselys let her speak, occasionally adding polite replies. Vencian watched the rhythm of the conversation. The woman's voice carried warmth that felt practiced, the sort people use to fill silence.

Halfway through the meal, Perdil looked between them. "About your rooms," she said. "I was going to give you each one, but the top room's full of clutter from my husband's things. Haven't had the heart to sort it yet. You'll have to share the other room tonight."

Roselys froze for half a second. Vencian felt the same pause inside him. He caught her glance, both of them remembering they were supposed to be brother and sister.

"That's fine," Roselys said too quickly.

Perdil brightened. "Good. Saves me a bit of guilt for the mess upstairs."

Vencian nodded, aiming for casual. "We're used to traveling light."

Perdil laughed. "You must be. I'll set some fresh sheets after supper."

When she turned away to clear the bowls, Roselys exhaled quietly. Vencian caught it and kept his face neutral.

This will be interesting.

Upstairs, the guest room was small, with one broad bed and a single chair beside it. The window faced the street, where festival banners hung between poles.

Vencian muttered, "We shouldn't have gone that far with the cover. Calling ourselves siblings might have been too much."

Roselys glanced at him, embarrassed. "There are no inns or taverns here. I didn't expect that to matter."

"It mattered tonight," he said dryly.

She gave a brief sigh. "I didn't foresee this situation."

He looked at the single bed. "I can take the floor."

She shook her head. "It's my fault. I'll do that instead."

"That makes no sense," he said. "I offered first."

The argument died fast. The bed was wide enough. Neither wanted to continue the debate.

Roselys turned to arrange the blanket, avoiding his eyes. Vencian placed his coat on the chair and sat on the edge of the bed, uncertain where to look.

The quiet stretched.

She spoke without turning. "We stick to our story, right? Siblings would share a bed without thinking twice."

"Right," he said. "Siblings."

They lay down at opposite sides. Vencian's eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, sleep nowhere near him.

Roselys shifted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You can sleep, Lord Vicorra. I'll keep to my side."

"Vencian," he said quietly.

She looked over. "Pardon?"

"If we're going to keep pretending to be siblings, might as well sound like it. Drop the 'Lord.'"

Her expression softened, though she looked away. "It feels strange. I'm used to addressing people by their titles."

He let out a faint breath that could almost be amusement. "I mean, I'll turn nineteen next year. Considering you must not be more than thirty—"

Her head snapped toward him. "Thirty? I'm not even twenty-four."

"Ah," he said, as if taking mental note. "Then I'll try to sound appropriately respectful."

Roselys stared for a second, then looked away again, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. "You're impossible."

"Good," he murmured. "That makes two of us."

Sleep came slowly but without incident.

When he opened his eyes again, sunlight had reached the window. The sound of villagers outside carried through the thin glass—cart wheels, children's laughter, and the distant call of vendors setting up stalls. The air smelled faintly of fried dough and wood smoke.

Roselys was already awake, tying her hair back. She caught his glance in the window reflection. "Morning."

"Morning," he answered.

She checked her satchel. "We should go meet the seer first. After that, we can watch for your missing girl if you want."

"I'll pass," he said. "You should go alone. I'll check the rest of the village."

Roselys didn't argue. She only nodded once and started toward the stairs.

Downstairs, the landlady greeted them with her usual brightness, ladling porridge into bowls while her young son played nearby with a wooden horse. She spoke about the festival's opening events and the lanterns that would light the square after sunset.

When they stepped outside, the village had transformed overnight. Strings of fabric hung between roofs. Stalls lined the main road, still being arranged. A group of men raised wooden frames for lanterns, their voices cutting through the cool morning air.

Vencian paused to watch. The memory of Ralan's lanterns flickered in his mind. Roselys caught his look.

"Remembering Ralan's celebration?" she asked.

"Kind of," he said.

She adjusted her satchel. "I've missed it too. For the few years I've been away, I thought this year I'd finally see it again because of a certain someone. Guess that's not happening."

He glanced sideways. "You say it as if you're not enjoying what we're doing here."

"I am," she said. "Anything that leads to discovery of something ancient is worth it to me. That's what I enjoy most."

Vencian noted the honesty in her voice. She means it. Something genuine that he couldn't find in himself.

They reached the square and slowed.

He stopped first. "Go ahead to your meeting."

Roselys gave him a short look, then continued down the path.

Vencian turned to Quenya, who hovered faintly at his side. He gave a small nod. She rolled her eyes but moved after Roselys.

He watched them go, then turned toward the other side of the village.

— — —

Quenya followed at a distance. Her form stayed invisible, a habit that had become second nature. It gave her the comfort of silence, away from the eyes of anyone except Lucian.

She floated above the narrow path, keeping her focus on Roselys. Quenya's gaze stayed fixed on her. Lucian wants her watched. Again.

She tilted her head slightly. He's been too cautious lately. The thought wasn't new. But after everything, maybe he has reason.

The morning air brushed through her hair, though she felt nothing. She hadn't felt temperature in this form for a long time. It made her wonder what counted as normal anymore.

She drifted closer when Roselys reached a small house near the end of the street. The walls were rough and pale from years of wear. A faint smell of herbs came through the open window.

Roselys adjusted her satchel, then raised a hand to knock. Quenya stopped a few feet behind her, hovering quietly.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. This must be the seer's place.

The sound of knuckles against wood broke the morning hum. Quenya stayed still, invisible, watching the door as it opened a fraction.

She felt the familiar tension rise in her. Let's see what Lucian wanted me to find.

— — —

P.s: Please read the author's note below.

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