A week had passed.
The market had begun to move again.
Stalls stood open where they had been abandoned days before, their wooden frames repaired just enough to hold weight again. Cloth awnings hung unevenly, patched where blades or fire had torn through them. Nothing matched. Nothing needed to.
People had returned to their places, though they stood in them differently now.
A butcher weighed meat, his hands steady but slower than they should have been, as if each motion had to be remembered before it could be performed. Across from him, a woman argued over price...not loudly, not with anger, but with the quiet persistence of someone who could not afford.
The merchant did not raise his voice in return. He adjusted the scale, added a sliver more to her portion, and said nothing.
A cart creaked its way through the narrow path between stalls, its wheels grinding unevenly against the stone. The man pulling it leaned forward with effort that showed in the tightness of his shoulders, one leg dragging half a step behind the other.
Near the edge of the square, a child broke free from his mother's grasp and ran ahead, laughter slipping from him too quickly, too brightly for the space it entered.
The sound cut through the air in a way that didn't belong there yet.
His mother caught him within seconds, her hand closing around his arm with more force than needed. She didn't scold him. Didn't speak.
She only held him there.
A moment longer than necessary.
Viktor watched that.
He didn't fully understand why.
But he didn't look away.
Ahead of him, Kaavi moved through the market without breaking stride.
He did not avoid people, nor did he push through them. The space around him adjusted instead... subtle shifts, small steps taken unconsciously by others who sensed something in his movement that asked for distance without demanding it.
His gaze passed over the stalls not as a buyer's would, but as something sharper. He did not linger on what was offered. He did not admire or consider.
He measured.
Quality. Use. Weight. Longevity.
Everything else was ignored.
Gavril, walking at his side, did not share that detachment.
He stopped at a stall without ceremony, lifting a strip of dried meat from a rough wooden tray. His fingers pressed into it with practiced familiarity, testing resistance, feeling for the slight give that told him whether it would chew or break teeth.
The surface cracked faintly.
He clicked his tongue.
"This's been dried twice," he said, not looking at the merchant. "First time wasn't enough."
The man behind the stall didn't argue. He simply leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, eyes dull with the kind of fatigue that no rest could fix in a single week.
"Take it or leave it."
Gavril brought it closer, sniffed once, then again, slower.
"…Salt's uneven," he added. "You rushed it."
A pause stretched between them...not hostile, not tense. Just measured.
Then Gavril lowered the strip back onto the tray.
"Half."
The merchant hesitated just long enough for it to mean something, then gave a short nod.
Coins changed hands with a dull, metallic clink that seemed louder than it should have been.
When Gavril straightened, the movement faltered just slightly at the end...not enough to draw attention. His shoulder lagged behind the rest of him by a fraction, catching on something unseen before settling back into place.
The bandages had been removed.
"Salt next," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, adjusting the strap of his satchel. "If there's any left that isn't mixed with dirt."
They moved on.
Viktor followed at a slower pace, his attention pulled.
A wall where stone had been scrubbed too hard, leaving pale streaks where something darker had once been. A doorway hastily repaired, the wood still splintered beneath the fresh nails. A narrow alley where the light did not reach fully...and where something had happened that no one had bothered to speak about.
His eyes caught on a mark there.
Faint.
Irregular.
He held his gaze on it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he looked away.
And kept walking.
The light shifted as the afternoon wore on, the sun lowering just enough to stretch shadows across the stone in long, uneven lines. The air cooled slightly, though the warmth of the day still clung to the walls, radiating outward in a way that made the space feel enclosed, held.
By the time they turned back toward the infirmary, the market had begun to thin.
People had taken what they needed.
And returned to whatever waited for them.
The infirmary stood where it always had…unchanged in structure.
The smell greeted them before the doorway did.
Dried herbs, crushed into paste and left to sit too long. Clean cloth that had been washed but not fully rid of what it had held. And beneath it all, faint but persistent...
iron.
Their room was not empty.
The Baron stood by the window, his posture still, his hands resting lightly behind his back. He was not looking at the city beyond the glass, but at its reflection...blurred slightly by the uneven surface, softened in a way the real thing was not.
For a moment, he did not turn.
"You took longer than expected,".
"You are leaving?" he said.
Kaavi stepped fully into the room, the movement unhurried, his presence filling the space without force.
"Yes."
The Baron turned then, slowly, as if giving the moment the time it required rather than the time it deserved.
Up close, the lines of his face told more than his posture ever would. Not weakness, not age...but weight. The kind that settled into a man over years and did not leave, even when the battles that placed it there had ended.
"You've done more than I asked," he said.
Kaavi did not answer.
Baron watched him for a moment longer, as if weighing whether silence itself was the answer he had expected.
"I will not send you away with nothing," the Baron continued, lifting a hand slightly.
"Come," he said.
Through the glass, the courtyard below came into view.
The light of the late afternoon had begun to fade into a muted gold, settling over the stone like a thin veil. Near the far edge, tied to a post set into the ground, stood the horse.
Even at a distance, it drew the eye, its presence was unmistakable.
It stood taller than most, its frame was larger than any common mount, built with an efficiency that spoke of breeding and purpose rather than chance. Muscles shifted beneath its coat with quiet control. Its eyes remained alert, taking in everything without reacting to it.
This was not an animal meant for travel.
It was meant for war.
"A mount bred for endurance, not speed alone. It can run longer than most men can ride." the Baron said. "It will not fail you before your own body does."
He let the words settle, not pushing further than needed.
"It would serve you well."
Kaavi's faze followed the direction of the baron's hand.
He looked at the horse for a few seconds.
Then he turned back.
"No." he said.
The refusal was calm, but this time it did not end there.
"It's a fine steed," Kaavi continued, his tone even, almost measured in its acknowledgment. "Too fine."
The Baron's eyes narrowed slightly not in offense, but in interest.
Kaavi shifted his weight just enough to rest his hand lightly against the edge of the table beside him.
"Anything that stands out invites attention," he said. "Not just from those who admire it but from those who measure its worth differently."
His gaze flicked briefly back toward the window, then returned.
"A mount like that changes how people see you before you've said a word. It draws questions."
"I have no use for either."
The Baron studied him in silence for a moment.
"Most men would still take it," he said. "Even knowing that."
Kaavi inclined his head slightly.
"Most men are willing to carry what comes with it."
A faint shift in his expression.
"I am not."
The Baron's attention lingered on him a moment longer, then moved subtly, thoughtfully.
"Then perhaps something less… visible," he said, stepping away from the window. "Steel. Armor. Tools that serve without announcing themselves."
Kaavi's answer came again, but not as abruptly as before.
"I already carry what I can maintain," he said. "Anything more becomes weight I don't need."
His eyes settled fully on the Baron now.
A slight pause.
"I prefer not to be tied to things that can be taken from me."
A silence settled between them...not tense, not uncomfortable, but weighted by the understanding that what was being offered held value… and that value was not enough.
Then...
"Paper," Kaavi said.
"Ink."
A brief pause followed.
"Something that lasts longer than a blade."
That, more than anything else, seemed to shift something in the Baron's expression.
Not surprise.
Attention.
"…That is all?"
Kaavi inclined his head once.
The Baron's gaze moved, slowly, to Viktor.
The boy stood just behind, not hiding, not stepping forward...present in the way someone becomes when they are being considered rather than addressed.
"…You intend to teach him," the Baron said.
Kaavi did not answer.
The silence that followed was different from the ones before it.
The Baron exhaled quietly, the sound almost lost in the space between them.
"…Very well."
He stepped back, the distance between them restored...not as ruler and subject, but as two men who had reached the end of a conversation neither needed to continue.
"I will have it prepared," he said.
Then, after a moment...
His gaze lingered on Viktor for just a fraction longer than before.
"Not all weapons are forged from steel."
Then he turned and left.
The room settled around their absence.
The faint sounds of the infirmary beyond the door returned slowly...footsteps, quiet voices, the distant clink of something being set down too carefully.
Gavril let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, shifting his weight against the wall.
"You could've taken the horse," he said, his tone carrying more habit than argument. "Would've made the road easier."
Kaavi did not respond.
Gavril watched him for a moment, then looked away, scratching lightly at his jaw.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Figured."
Gavril glanced toward Kaavi again.
A man who passed through places without leaving anything behind or taking anything with him.
Gavril's jaw shifted slightly.
"Turns down a war-bred mount."
His fingers adjusted the satchel again, more out of habit than need.
"Turns down more than most men earn in a lifetime."
A faint exhale left him.
"Asks for ink."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
"Still don't understand him."
Outside, the light continued to fade.
And somewhere in the distance...
Whitehold kept moving.