Chapter 30
The city was quiet.
This was wrong.
Eastrun did not do quiet. It hummed, rattled, laughed too loudly, argued in public, and sang badly in taverns. Silence belonged to battlefields, temples, and moments just before something broke.
Dorian stood on the guild hall balcony, watching the streets below.
No one was shouting. No one was asking questions. No one was looking for him.
The chicken was also absent.
That worried him more than the silence.
He rested his forearms on the stone railing and exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his shoulders settle deeper. It wasn't the satisfying soreness of training or the sharp pain of injury—it was the dull weight of days spent holding things together with charm and momentum.
He had done that his whole life.
Kept things moving. Kept people laughing. Kept the damage from feeling permanent.
Below him, a pair of guards changed shifts quietly. One glanced up, saw Dorian, and looked away again—not out of fear or reverence, but something closer to consideration.
Dorian did not like that look.
He pushed away from the railing and went back inside.
The guild hall felt hollow without Rowan.
Not empty—never that—but missing its center of gravity.
Desks were still staffed. Notices were still posted. Clerks moved with practiced efficiency, but there was a subtle drift to everything, like a ship sailing without its anchor dropped.
Dorian walked through it all without speaking.
No one stopped him.
That was new, too.
He passed the incident board. Someone had added a new category beneath Structural Complications.
Avian-Related Uncertainty
Dorian stopped.
Stared.
Then reached up and gently removed the tag.
"Not today," he murmured.
He continued on, up the stairs, down a corridor, and into the smaller meeting room Rowan used when he didn't want an audience.
Dorian rarely entered it alone.
He closed the door behind him.
The room smelled faintly of old parchment and tea leaves. Sunlight filtered in through a high window, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
Dorian sat.
The chair creaked softly.
For a long moment, he did nothing.
No jokes. No deflection. No audience.
His fingers curled slowly, unclenched, then curled again.
"I didn't mean for it to get this far," he said quietly.
The room did not answer.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I was helping," he continued, voice low. "I always am."
He laughed softly, without humor.
"At least... I think I am."
Memories surfaced uninvited.
A battlefield years ago—smoke, screaming, the weight of armor slick with blood. Dorian younger, faster, laughing through fear because stopping meant thinking.
Rowan beside him then, steady and unyielding, a wall that did not crack.
Dorian had always been the one who moved.
The distraction. The momentum.T he man who made things happen.
Because if he stopped—
He swallowed.
"If I stop," he said, staring at the table, "everything catches up."
He leaned back, head resting against the chair.
The quiet pressed in.
This was why he filled it.
With noise. With chaos. With chickens, apparently.
A soft sound came from the doorway.
Dorian stiffened.
The door opened slowly.
Lila Valebright stepped inside, holding a stack of papers against her chest. She paused when she saw him, then gently closed the door behind her.
"I thought you might be here," she said.
Dorian straightened automatically. "Ah. Paperwork?"
She nodded. "Some."
She hesitated, then added, "And... you've been avoiding people."
Dorian smiled faintly. "I prefer the term 'strategic absence.'"
She didn't smile back.
That, more than anything, made his chest tighten.
She set the papers down and took the chair across from him, folding her hands neatly.
"You didn't come to breakfast," she said.
"I wasn't hungry."
"You didn't argue with the baker."
Dorian blinked. "That's how you know something's wrong?"
She nodded. "Yes."
He huffed a quiet laugh, then let it fade.
Lila studied him for a moment.
"You don't have to perform here," she said gently.
Dorian looked away.
"I don't know how not to," he admitted.
The words surprised him with how easily they came.
Lila leaned forward slightly. "Rowan trusts you."
"I know."
"He trusts you because you care."
Dorian nodded. "I do."
"And because you step in when others freeze."
Dorian's fingers tightened on the chair arm.
"Yes."
"But," Lila continued, softer now, "stepping in all the time doesn't mean you have to carry everything alone."
Dorian exhaled slowly.
"I don't feel alone," he said. "I feel... responsible."
She tilted her head. "For what?"
"For the space Rowan leaves," he said. "For the quiet."
He gestured vaguely. "For things falling apart if I don't keep them moving."
Lila was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, "The city didn't fall apart when Rowan left."
Dorian laughed once, sharp. "Give it time."
She met his eyes. "Dorian."
He stopped.
"I've been reading the reports," she said. "And the complaints. And the apologies."
Dorian winced.
"And do you know what they all have in common?" she asked.
"They blame me?"
"No," she said gently. "They end with people being alive."
Dorian stared at her.
"You save people," Lila said. "Even when you make a mess. Even when you don't plan. Even when you scare everyone—including yourself."
He swallowed.
"That doesn't erase the damage," he said quietly.
"No," she agreed. "But it does explain why people forgive you."
Silence settled again—lighter this time.
Dorian looked down at his hands.
"I don't like it," he said. "When the laughing stops."
Lila nodded. "Neither do I."
They sat there together, not speaking, letting the quiet exist without trying to fix it.
From somewhere in the building, a faint cluck echoed.
Dorian stiffened.
Lila blinked. "Was that—"
"Yes," Dorian said immediately.
The cluck sounded again, closer this time.
Dorian closed his eyes.
"...I'm not ready," he muttered.
The door creaked open.
The chicken stepped inside.
It did not shimmer.
It did not glow.
It simply walked in, as ordinary as any other animal, and stopped a few feet away.
It looked at Dorian.
Dorian looked back.
Lila held her breath.
The chicken tilted its head.
Then, without ceremony, it hopped onto the empty chair beside Dorian and settled there.
No spectacle.
No judgment.
Just presence.
Dorian stared at it for a long moment.
"...You didn't do anything," he said softly.
The chicken blinked.
"You didn't fix anything."
It clucked once.
"...You just stayed."
The chicken tucked its feet beneath itself.
Lila let out a quiet breath.
Dorian leaned back slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders in a way he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Alright," he murmured. "You can stay."
The chicken closed its eyes.
The quiet did not leave.
But it no longer felt so heavy.
The chicken stayed.
Dorian did not comment on this immediately, because acknowledging things had a habit of making them worse.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and regarded it from the corner of his eye like a man sharing a bench with a very judgmental pigeon.
"...I just want it on record," he said, "that this is not how I imagined my afternoon."
The chicken blinked.
"Yes, I know," Dorian continued. "You didn't imagine anything. That's part of the problem."
Across the table, Lila Valebright cleared her throat softly.
"I should clarify," she said, practical as ever, "before rumors start."
Dorian glanced at her. "You've met this city."
She nodded. "Rowan and I are still on our honeymoon."
"Ah," Dorian said. "Good. Excellent. Reassuring."
She continued calmly, "I came back for one day. Quietly. Rowan is very aware."
Dorian relaxed visibly. "Oh thank the gods."
She raised an eyebrow. "You were worried?"
"I was concerned I'd have to explain why I interrupted a romantic mountain retreat with paperwork," Dorian said. "I would not survive that conversation."
Lila smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
She gestured at the chicken. "And this?"
Dorian spread his hands. "Uninvited. Persistent. Possibly immortal."
The chicken clucked.
"See?" Dorian said. "Defiant."
Lila leaned back in her chair. "You look tired."
Dorian scoffed. "I'm efficient."
"You tried to solve three problems before breakfast."
"Time management."
"And then supervised a bridge collapse."
"Delegation."
She stared at him.
"...I saved a family," he added quickly.
"Yes," Lila said gently. "You did."
Dorian waited for the rest of it.
It didn't come.
"...You're not going to say 'but'?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not today."
That unsettled him more than criticism.
"Well," Dorian said briskly, clapping his hands once, "that's good. Because this is not a heartfelt conversation."
The chicken tilted its head.
"This is a check-in," Dorian continued. "Very different."
Lila smiled knowingly. "Of course."
She folded her hands. "Rowan asked me to make sure you were still standing."
Dorian puffed up slightly. "I always am."
"I can see that," she said. "He also asked me to tell you to stop trying to fill every silence."
Dorian opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"...That sounds like him."
Lila stood. "I won't stay long. I just wanted to make sure the guild hadn't burned down."
Dorian winced. "Define 'burned.'"
She sighed. "He was right to trust you."
Dorian blinked.
"You keep things together," she said. "Even when you do it sideways."
He smiled crookedly. "I am very good at sideways."
She gathered her papers. "I'll be gone again by nightfall. Rowan would like at least some uninterrupted peace."
Dorian nodded solemnly. "I support romance."
She paused at the door. "Try not to invent new incidents while I'm gone."
"No promises," Dorian said. "But I'll aim for manageable."
She laughed softly and left.
The door closed.
Dorian turned slowly to the chicken.
"...She's nice," he said.
The chicken clucked.
"Yes," Dorian agreed. "Out of my league."
He stood, stretching his arms overhead.
"Alright," he said. "Break's over."
The chicken hopped down and followed him.
They walked through the guild hall together.
A clerk looked up. "Sir Dorian—"
"Yes," he said immediately. "The answer is still no."
She nodded. "Understood."
A guard saluted. "Sir."
Dorian saluted back. "Try not to look directly at it."
The guard stiffened. "At what?"
"Exactly," Dorian said, continuing on.
Outside, the city had returned to its usual rhythm. Not panicked. Not quiet. Just... Eastrun.
Dorian inhaled deeply.
"Alright," he said to the chicken, "we're back to business."
The chicken clucked.
"Good," Dorian said. "Because tomorrow someone's going to ask me another question."
The chicken blinked.
"And when they do," Dorian added, smiling faintly, "I'm going to give them the same answer."
He squared his shoulders and stepped forward.
"Please," he said cheerfully, "stop asking me that."
The chicken followed.
Of course it did.