Beneath the Wall
Ronic now lived in the eastern quarter, beneath the city’s southern wall, where stone gave way to timber and the streets grew narrower. The outer palisades there were lower—reinforced rather than ornamental, guarded more out of habit.
The house was modest.
Stone at its base, wood above, enclosed by a simple fence of dark planks.
Edric once lived there.
A place built for someone who expected to be gone more often than present.
Two guards stood near the gate.
They recognized Mikhail at once and stepped aside without question.
Inside, the air smelled of oil and smoke.
Ronic looked up as Mikhail entered.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then they moved at the same time.
The embrace was brief but firm—brotherly, honest.
“I still don’t understand how this happened,” Ronic said quietly as they stepped back.
“One moment I was standing in line. The next…”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know why me.”
They moved.
Ronic led the way to the front of the house and sat heavily on the wooden steps, the plates of his armor settling with a muted clink.
He did not remove it.
Mikhail sat beside him, the fabric of his coat brushing wood.
For a moment, they simply watched the yard.
“It’s quiet here,” Mikhail said.
“Not what I expected.”
Ronic huffed softly.
“That’s because nothing important ever happens where people live,” he said.
“Only where they march.”
Mikhail glanced at the fence, the wall beyond.
“It suits you,” he said. “Doesn’t pretend to be more than it is.”
Ronic gave a small, crooked smile.
“Careful,” he said. “Say that too loudly and they’ll move me closer to the palace.”
The smile faded as quickly as it came.
“My father left something behind,” Mikhail said at last.
“I didn’t know it existed.”
Ronic’s expression shifted—not surprise, but attention.
“A letter,” Mikhail added. “More than one.”
Ronic exhaled slowly.
“At least yours left words,” he said.
“That’s more than silence.”
He glanced aside.
“I lost my father young,” he went on.
“Not to death. To silence.”
A pause.
“He still lives. Not far from here. And yet…”
Ronic gave a faint shake of his head.
“We might as well be strangers.”
Mikhail said nothing.
“The only brother I ever truly had was Rowan,” Ronic said.
“And I lost him.”
Mikhail did not answer.
Rowan had been Ronic's brother.
His twin.
Lost at the Ridgeline, swallowed by the river.
Mikhail remembered the last thing Rowan had said before he fell.
“You were the one who should have fallen.”
The words had burned then.
They burned still.
Not because they were cruel—
but because Rowan had believed them.
Had chosen to fall rather than face what waited above.
Edric's judgment.
The Order's.
His own.
They had shared the same face.
The same voice.
The same stillness when listening.
Sometimes memory still mistook one for the other..
Mikhail lowered his head.
The silence settled between them.
Then Mikhail spoke again.
“My father wrote about Valecourt,” he said.
“He wrote of quiet places.
Of words spoken where stone learned how to listen.”
Ronic frowned.
“That sounds like old fear,” he said after a moment.
“People vanish in every city.
Rumors grow where stone is old.”
He shrugged lightly.
“Valecourt stands.
It always has.”
Maybe it was reassurance.
Maybe it was habit.
Ronic straightened.
“I have to go,” he said.
“New duties.”
A dry smile touched his mouth.
“The King has summoned the captains and commanders again.
I don’t yet know why.”
Mikhail nodded.
“Be careful,” he said.
Ronic met his gaze.
“I will,” he replied.
“You too.”
He turned, then stopped.
“Stay,” Ronic said.
“At least until I return.”
Mikhail raised a brow.
“Go inside,” Ronic added.
“And eat. Proper food.”
Mikhail scoffed quietly.
“You and your food.”
Ronic snorted.
“Hey. Food is sacred.”
For a moment, the weight lifted.
A short laugh passed between them—quick, real.
Then Ronic straightened.
“I have to go.”
Mikhail nodded once.
They parted at the gate.
Ronic turned toward his duties.
Mikhail turned toward the street.
The day had begun without him.
It did not wait.