Morning arrived quietly over the river hollow.
The air was cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of wet leaves and slow-moving water. Mist still clung to the lower grass. Somewhere beyond the treeline, the sky had begun to pale, though the deeper shadows under the eaves had not yet given way.
A bird landed on the roof.
Its call was sharp and sudden, cutting cleanly through the stillness.
Inside the house, Indura lay on his mat, breathing in a slow, even rhythm. A quiet snore escaped him. At the sound of the bird, one ear twitched. Then his eyes opened.
He blinked once.
For a moment he stared at the wooden ceiling, as if waiting for the world to make sense of itself. Then he sat up.
"…I did not think I would sleep at all."
The room remained mostly dark. Thin lines of early light slipped through the narrow gaps between the wooden boards, tracing pale marks across the floor. Dust floated in those thin beams, undisturbed.
Indura looked to the side.
The mat where Shadow had lain was empty.
He regarded the space for a second, then yawned and rose to his feet without further thought. Shadow's disappearances no longer surprised him.
He moved through the house in silence.
The main room was as they had left it — clean, ordered, and strangely preserved. He paused near the low table, resting his fingers lightly against its worn surface. The wood was smooth from years of use. On the nearby shelf, clay cups sat in a neat row, each slightly different in shape, as if made by hand over a long stretch of time.
Indura's gaze drifted across the quiet space.
There was nothing impressive here. No power. No grand design. Only the simple weight of a life that had been lived carefully, day after day, without the need for greater things. For a brief moment he stood there, taking it in, the stillness settling around him in a way that felt unfamiliar… and not entirely unpleasant.
Eventually he turned toward the door and stepped outside.
The old male elf was already in the yard, adjusting the grip on a short wooden rod and a coiled line. When he noticed Indura, he straightened and offered a small nod.
"Good morning."
Indura returned the gesture.
"Morning."
The old elf glanced toward the river.
"I am going to fish before the day grows warmer. If you do not mind, I could use another pair of hands."
Indura tilted his head slightly.
"Fish?"
The old elf blinked, then let out a short, dry laugh.
"You must not know. Come. Walk with me."
He turned toward the river path without waiting for further explanation. After a moment, Indura followed, the cool morning air moving softly around them as they left the house behind.
---------------
The river moved in a slow, steady current.
The old elf set his rod and net down on the grass, then stepped closer to the water. He crouched and dipped one hand beneath the surface, letting the cold run across his fingers for a moment before pulling it back. Indura stood a short distance away, arms folded loosely across his chest, golden eyes following every motion without comment.
The elf returned to his rod. With careful hands, he loosened the line, then pinched a small piece of bread and pressed it onto the hook. When he finished, he glanced over his shoulder.
"You really do not know what fishing is?"
Indura's mouth curved slightly.
"I do not."
The old elf let out a short chuckle and turned back toward the river. He cast the line with a practiced motion. The hook landed softly and sank beneath the surface. The rod settled in his grip as he found a comfortable stance.
"I am not surprised," he said after a moment. "Much has been lost. History breaks apart more easily than people think. Some races forget their roots. Others wander so long they no longer remember what they were searching for."
Indura remained silent.
The old elf's gaze stayed on the water.
"Not many remember fishing anymore. Or how it was done. It was a tradition in these parts of the East. On certain days people would gather along the lakes and rivers. Some stood. Some sat. All of them waited. It was never only about the catch. It was about the time spent between casts. Old friends talking. Younger ones listening. Stories growing in the quiet spaces. A man could learn more about his neighbor in a morning by the water than in a year of ordinary days."
A frog shifted in the grass near Indura's foot. He looked down as it gathered itself and leaped, disappearing into the river with a small splash.
The old elf continued, voice lower now.
"I miss those days—the ones where the end of our people was not something we had to measure with every season. Then things changed. One by one, the people I knew were swept away."
Indura's eyes sharpened.
"What do you mean?"
Before the elf could answer, the line pulled taut.
A faint smile crossed the older man's face.
"Ah. There."
He braced and pulled upward. The rod bent. For a moment he held, then the force on the other end dragged him half a step toward the water. His arms strained against the weight.
Indura watched him struggle for a few seconds, then walked over. He took the rod in one hand and drew it back with almost no effort. The line came free of the water, and a small gray fish twisted at the end of it, flashing dull silver in the morning light.
Indura looked down at it.
"You were struggling with something this small?"
The old elf laughed, the sound rough but genuine.
"You have a sharp tongue. But you are not wrong. I am too old for even this much. Seven hundred years will do that to a body."
Indura let out a low laugh.
"Seven hundred?"
The elf raised an eyebrow.
Indura turned the fish slightly, still studying it.
"I did not think elves here lived such short lives."
"Elves here?"
Indura nodded.
"The ones I know can live three thousand years or more."
The old elf's hand drifted to his gray beard. He tugged at it once, thoughtfully.
"You are mistaken. There are no elves in Chaos who reach such an age. Not in this era."
Indura glanced at him.
"I have seen them. They live in lands thick with warm mana. They keep royalty. Bloodlines that stretch far longer than most would believe." He paused, golden eyes settling fully on the older man. "This is the first time I have seen a dark elf."
Silence settled between them.
The old elf stared at him. His eyes narrowed, not with hostility, but with a sharp, searching attention. The moment stretched. The river continued its quiet movement beside them. Neither looked away.
At last the old elf spoke, his voice slower than before.
"Young one… where are you from?"
Indura turned his gaze back toward the river.
"I am from here," he said after a moment. "And from there. Even I am not certain anymore."
The old elf let out a short, dry laugh.
"An interesting one, then."
He baited the hook again and cast the line back into the current. The water accepted it with barely a ripple. For a time neither of them spoke. The river moved steadily between its banks. A thin breeze passed through the grass.
Then the old elf's voice returned, lower than before.
"I once had a son. Strong. Much like I was in my younger years."
Indura stepped closer to the edge of the water, listening.
"We lived quietly. A stable life. But he always spoke of seeing the world… of crossing Chaos and learning what lay beyond the valleys we knew. Youth has a way of reaching for everything at once. Sometimes that hunger leads a person into places they cannot return from."
Indura's eyes drifted to the old elf's hands — thin, lined, marked by years of work.
"What happened to him?"
The silence that followed was longer.
"He went missing," the elf said at last. "No. That is not the right word. He was taken. By… things."
Indura's brow furrowed slightly.
"Things?"
The older man drew a slow breath.
"I do not know what they were. Only that they were living, and that they were not of any nature I understood. Elves in Chaos are rarely left in peace. Those who still live are scattered — some running, some hidden, some already locked away. That is why my wife and I returned here when we did. We felt the weight of being hunted and chose to leave before it closed around us."
Indura exhaled quietly and looked out across the flowing water.
"Why were you being hunted?"
The old elf did not answer at once. The line in his hands remained still. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a careful distance.
"Forgive me for speaking of such things. I have no wish to pull you into the weight of my life."
Indura studied him for a moment. Then a faint smile touched his mouth. Something quiet moved through him — a feeling shaped by older days, by years spent among people who lived without power. Generosity, perhaps. Or recognition.
The river continued its soft course. The wind passed between them again.
"Do you want my help?" Indura asked.
The old elf raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"I could find these… things," Indura said. "And take care of them."
The silence that followed was heavier than the ones before it. Then the older man chuckled, low and rough.
"I am grateful for the offer. Truly. But you should not tangle yourself in another man's troubles. You still have a long life ahead of you." He adjusted his grip on the rod and nodded toward the water. "Better you watch for fish. One can slip away if you are not paying attention."
Indura looked at him.
"Old man."
"Focus on the water," the elf replied, not unkindly. "A fish does not wait."
For a moment Indura said nothing. Then the sharpness in his eyes eased. A small smile returned as he turned his gaze fully toward the river, golden eyes settling on the moving surface.
I almost got myself involved... How close.
The line remained still.
The morning continued around them, quiet and unbroken.
---------------
A while later, they returned along the river path.
Indura carried the net over one shoulder. Several fish shifted inside it with each step, scales dull and wet in the morning light. The old elf walked beside him, rod resting against his back, his pace unhurried despite the successful catch.
Smoke was already rising from the small house when it came into view.
Inside, the female elf moved with quiet efficiency near the low hearth. Her silver-streaked dark hair was tied back loosely, a few strands framing a face marked by age but still holding a calm sharpness. Fine lines gathered at the corners of her eyes. Her hands, though thin, worked with practiced certainty as she arranged clay bowls and set a small pot closer to the heat.
When the door opened, she looked up.
"You are back," she said. Her voice was steady, warm without excess. "Sit. The rest will be ready soon."
She crossed the room and took the net from Indura with a small nod of thanks, already assessing the catch as she turned away. The old elf eased himself down onto a worn cushion near the table. Indura remained standing for a moment longer before lowering himself as well.
The woman spoke to her husband without looking up from the fish.
"The river was kind today."
"It was," he replied. "More than I expected."
"You always say that when you bring something back."
A faint breath of amusement left him.
"And you always pretend not to be pleased."
She did not answer, but the slight shift of her shoulders carried its own quiet reply as she continued cleaning the fish. Their words were few, ordinary, shaped by years of repetition. There was no performance in them. Only the ease of two people who had shared the same space long enough that even silence between them felt occupied.
Indura watched.
The exchange was simple, almost unremarkable, and yet something about it held his attention. In his understanding, strength decided most bonds. Power shaped loyalty. Fear or necessity kept many things in place. What sat before him now did not follow those rules. It was quieter. Steadier. A kind of closeness that did not need to announce itself.
He found it strange.
And, in a way he did not fully examine, comforting.
The scent of the forming meal filled the small house. Morning light strengthened through the gaps in the walls. Outside, the river continued its constant movement.
Indura's expression eased. A small smile touched his mouth as something distant rose in his thoughts — a softer memory, shaped by warmer days and a presence that had once stood beside him without demand.
He said nothing of it.
He only sat there, listening to the quiet rhythm of the old couple's morning, and let the feeling remain.
The old elf rested his hands on the table and looked across at Indura.
"Where are you headed from here?" he asked. "And the ones you were traveling with before… will you meet them again?"
Indura was quiet for a moment, measuring his answer.
"We were only moving together for a short while," he said at last. "Our paths were never meant to stay joined. I am heading farther east for now. There are places I still need to see."
It was not entirely true, but it was close enough. The old elf studied him once, then accepted it with a small nod.
"Then be careful on those roads," he said. "The farther you go from settled ground, the less the land answers to ordinary rules. There are things in the deeper ranges that do not show themselves to most travelers. Fiends, some call them. Not always beasts. Not always spirits. If you feel the air turn wrong, do not linger out of pride."
Indura inclined his head.
"I will remember."
The female elf returned from the hearth carrying three clay cups. She set them down and poured from a small pot. A warm, nutty aroma rose at once, soft and unfamiliar. Indura's attention shifted to it immediately.
"What is this?"
"Almond tea," she said. "We make it when the mornings are still cool. Have you never had it?"
Indura looked down at the drink's pale surface.
"I have had something like it," he replied. "Colder. It is only a simple drink."
He picked up the cup and drank it in one continuous motion.
"Wait—" the male elf started.
It was already gone.
Indura set the empty cup back on the table. Steam drifted faintly from his mouth as he exhaled. Both elves stared at him.
"It stung a little," he said, still smiling. "But it was fine."
For a second neither of them spoke. Then the old man leaned back and let out a rough laugh.
"You are a strange fellow."
Indura laughed once in return, quiet and unbothered.
The female elf's expression softened into something more thoughtful.
"You have been sitting in our home," she said, "and we still do not know your name."
Her husband nodded.
"True. Rude of us. We should have asked sooner."
They both looked at him, waiting.
Indura did not answer at once.
His true name would carry weight. Even if these two did not recognize his face — something he still found quietly strange — the name itself might stir old memory. His gaze drifted across the small room, across the clean wooden walls and the soft morning light. Then a different image rose unbidden: a small boy with sharp eyes and an irritating persistence, a presence that had once clung to him without invitation.
What was his name again?... Min?!... Lin?!... Jin?!... Jin. That sounds more like it!
The corner of his mouth lifted.
"My name," he said, "is Jin."