CHAPTER 3 — leylin slept
Leylin stepped out of the crowd near Pearl Pavilion and kept moving. The noise of the shop fell behind him, not abruptly, just gradually, replaced by something wider, more stable. The street stretched ahead in long lines of worn stone, people moving in both directions without colliding, without hesitation, as if everyone already understood where they should be. Carts rolled past, wooden wheels grinding softly. Horses pulled them at an even pace, their hooves striking in rhythm. Some carried stacked goods, others carried people dressed in heavier robes, and those alone were enough to make others shift aside without being told. Leylin watched as he walked. No one forced order. No one needed to. It held on its own. He drifted along the edge of the street, letting people pass, listening more than looking. "…shipment came in late from Black Reed City…" "…road's unstable again, beasts maybe…" "…the Marquise won't ignore that…" Marquise. Not king. Not lord. Something that sat between. Leylin didn't react. He stored it and kept moving.
He turned into a narrower street. The air shifted slightly, less polished, carrying the smell of dried meat, metal, and old wood. Stalls lined the sides, small goods laid out in careful rows. "…Twinriver's been busy lately…" "…trade's rising again…" "…Silverwake merchants are already here…" Twinriver. He slowed, just slightly. So this place had a name. He looked again, this time with it in mind. It fit. Things moved through this place. Goods. People. Information. Not a place to stay. A place to pass through. Leylin continued. "…Iron Hollow's been pushing closer…" "…they always do when trade increases…" "…they won't try anything while the Marquise is watching…" Pressure. Not peace. He didn't dwell on it.
The deeper he went, the more the pattern revealed itself. People weren't just dressed well. They were arranged. Layers of clothing tied in deliberate ways, belts set at specific points, small emblems stitched into sleeves and collars. Not decoration. Identity. Leylin's gaze lingered briefly on one man moving ahead of him. His steps were light, controlled. His breathing steady. Stronger. Not obvious. But present. "…he already formed his core…" "…lucky…" "…just wait till he reaches foundation…" The words returned. Leylin kept walking, but his attention shifted inward. "…once you pass the pool test, everything changes…" "…most don't even get that far…" Pool test. Same thing. Different name.
He turned another corner. A wider road opened ahead, leading toward a larger structure where more people gathered. The test. He didn't go there. Not yet. He kept moving. "…those legends… you think they're real?" "…one man crossing three cities alone…" "…splitting beasts with bare hands…" "…stories grow with time…" Maybe. Maybe not. Leylin didn't care. He had seen worse. Done worse. None of this meant anything yet.
The streets shifted again, quieter now. Older. Buildings closer, the noise fading into something distant. A wooden sign hung slightly crooked above a door. Beggar's Inn. Leylin stopped. The name matched. Worn wood. Faded paint. A door that had been used too many times. He stepped inside. The air felt lived in. Not clean, not dirty. Just used. A few people sat at scattered tables, speaking in low voices. No one looked up immediately. Behind the counter, a man stood with a cloth in hand, slowly wiping a cup. His movements were unhurried, practiced. On the table beside him sat a small cluster of coins. Sixteen. Not stacked neatly, not scattered either. Left behind without care, but not forgotten.
Leylin's gaze passed over them once. Then he stepped forward. The man didn't speak immediately. His eyes lifted, taking Leylin in piece by piece. The clothes. New, but worn wrong. The posture. Straight, but not settled. The eyes. Watching too much. The cloth kept moving. Leylin said nothing. Neither did the man. A moment passed. Then Leylin's hand moved. A coin slid across the counter. Clean. Quiet. The man's eyes dropped to it. Then back up. The cloth slowed slightly. "…room?" he asked. Leylin nodded once. Silence again. Then the man reached under the counter and placed a small wooden plaque down. "Upstairs." He didn't push it forward. Not yet.
Leylin didn't take it. Another coin slid across the counter. Same motion. Same quiet sound against wood. The man's fingers tightened slightly around the cloth before relaxing again. "…busy day," he said, almost casually. "Test outside." Leylin's gaze didn't shift. A third coin. The man glanced at it, then back at Leylin. "…core test," he added. "People line up every year thinking something changes." Leylin spoke. "What does it test?" The man's eyes held his. A pause. "Where it forms." He stopped. Didn't continue. The space between them stretched. Leylin's fingers moved again. Another coin. The man exhaled lightly through his nose. "Abdomen for most," he said. "Heart if you're lucky." He paused again. Leylin didn't move. The next coin slid forward, slow, deliberate. The man's gaze flicked to it. "…mind," he finished. "Rare."
Silence followed. The cloth resumed its slow movement against the cup. Leylin reached for the plaque. This time, the man let him take it. No resistance. No question. Leylin turned and walked toward the stairs without looking back. The door opened briefly as someone else entered, letting in a sliver of outside noise before closing again. The man behind the counter remained where he was, still wiping the same cup. A few seconds passed. Then his gaze shifted to the table. Sixteen coins. Exactly as before. Same loose cluster. Same careless order. His hand stilled. The cloth stopped moving. He looked at the coins again, then toward the stairs. "…hm." That was all he said, but his eyes stayed there longer than before.
Leylin closed the door behind him and remained there for a moment, his hand resting against the wood as if confirming it held, that nothing would give way beneath him. The room was small and plain, a bed against the wall, a wooden table marked by use, a slightly uneven chair, a narrow window letting in a dull strip of light. Nothing in it tried to impress. Nothing tried to hide. He stepped forward slowly, taking it in without searching. The air felt still here. Contained. Different from the forest. Different from the streets. He reached the table first, his fingers brushing lightly across the surface, feeling the grooves left behind by time and use. Then he moved to the clay basin. Water. Clear enough.
He paused, then removed what remained of his clothing. The fabric slid off easily, worn and torn, falling without weight. He poured the water over himself. Cold. Immediate. It ran down his skin, carrying away dirt, dried blood, fragments of the forest that had clung to him without his notice. He didn't rush. His hands moved slowly, deliberately, as if relearning the act. The sensation stayed. Clear. Present. He let it. When he finished, he reached for the robe hanging on the wall and draped it over himself, adjusting it without thought. Then he moved back to the table and sat.
For a moment, he did nothing. Just sat, elbows resting lightly, gaze unfocused as the quiet settled around him. It didn't feel wrong. That was new. He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking, and exhaled, slow and unforced. Then he stood again without thinking and moved to the bed. It was simple. Thin. He sat, then lowered himself fully. The surface gave just enough. Not soft. But it held. Leylin stared upward, tracing the faint lines in the ceiling without seeing them.
Something shifted inside him. Not outside. Inside. A quiet settling. Not peace, but close enough to notice. His breathing steadied, rising and falling in rhythm. He stayed like that longer than expected, doing nothing, thinking nothing, just existing.
The feeling passed.
Thoughts returned, slow at first. Core. The word surfaced again. Where it forms. He had seen them fight, the ones called powerful. He had broken them, watched them fall, watched them end. There had been nothing inside. No center. No structure. No core. His brows pulled slightly. Why. The question carried weight without urgency. If this world measured everything through that, then what had they been, what had he destroyed.
Another thought followed, quieter, closer. Why had he never had one. Even before this. Before the forest. Before this body. His fingers curled slightly against the bedding. He tried to remember that place clearly, not fragments, the truth. The others. Not as individuals. As something else. Connected. Not physically. Beneath that. Their existence had felt shared, not separate, as if none of them had been complete on their own.
Leylin's gaze stilled.
A thought formed. Slow. Careful.
Then it stopped.
He didn't follow it further.
The room remained quiet.
His eyes closed slowly, not from decision but from weight, everything settling at once. The body didn't resist. It gave in. Gradually. His breathing evened out, the tension easing without notice.
For the first time in almost seven hundred years, Leylin slept.