They say everything begins with something small—most of the time, it does. Something that seems trivial, almost meaningless, yet slowly creeps inward, like a ripple that eventually swells into a wave. Aren never intended to draw attention; he disliked it. For him, silence was the safest way to endure. But then—
"You're the one who always observe, aren't you?"
The voice came from behind, light yet distinct, cutting through the air that had only just been filled with the echoes of children's footsteps rushing away from the training field. The morning session had ended, and time seemed to slow in the haze of dust still drifting, in the slanting sunlight that slid down the corner of the wall. Aren froze, his body stiff for a moment, then turned slightly—his movement restrained, as if held back by something unseen.
There stood a boy. Only a few steps away, yet the distance felt greater because of the gaze he carried. He could not have been more than ten or eleven, his face clean—too clean for a training ground thick with dirt and sweat. His clothes looked neat, as if freshly lifted from the morning line, a sharp contrast to the disarray all around. There was something unfamiliar in his calmness—a curiosity too large to contain, too sharp to remain silent.
The air around them seemed to hold its breath. The clamor from the other yard faded, shifting into a distant murmur, while time in that small space slowed, pressing every detail into focus: the slant of light falling across the gravel, the lingering scent of damp earth from practice, even the faint rasp of fabric as Aren shifted his stance. Everything felt drawn out, as though the world itself had paused to make room for the conversation about to begin.
Aren regarded him steadily, his gaze unhurried, as if weighing the words before letting them slip free. "I stay where I'm needed." he said at last, his low voice echoing softly in the emptiness of the yard.
The boy's eyes lit up, a small flame sparking across his face. "That's right." he murmured, as though solving a riddle only he could understand.
Aren did not answer right away. His silence was not rejection but a pause filled with subtle confusion—he did not truly grasp the meaning behind the boy's words. The air around them seemed to wait, suspended, as if anticipating something yet unspoken.
"I heard the rumour," the boy continued, stepping closer without hesitation. His movements were light, yet each step rang clear against the shifting gravel. "They said you don't fight because you've chosen something higher."
The words slipped out with a conviction born not of understanding, but of raw admiration. Aren's gaze fixed on him—a look difficult to read, like the surface of water that seems calm while currents stir beneath.
"People often say all sorts of things," he said at last, his voice flowing slowly, as though trying to calm the ripples that had been stirred. "But that doesn't make what they say true."
"But it makes them notice," the boy replied quickly, as if afraid to lose momentum. "And they notice you."
Aren did not answer. His silence this time stretched longer, heavier, as though time itself had slowed to emphasize the distance between words and meaning. A thin breeze drifted through, carrying the scent of earth and sweat left behind from the morning's training, while the sun's shadow crept longer across the wall. In that stillness, the world seemed to wait for Aren to speak again, yet he chose silence, letting the empty space speak in his stead.
The boy shifted his weight, a small movement that sent a faint crunch through the gravel beneath his feet. His gaze remained open, filled with honest curiosity, as though trying to uncover something hidden behind Aren's face. "Is it difficult?" he asked, his voice light yet carrying a tension that made the air around them feel denser.
Aren raised his eyebrows slightly, turning fully this time. "What?"
"Doing something different from everyone else."
The question hung in the air, suspended for a moment, as though time itself had slowed to give Aren space to consider it. He did not answer right away; his eyes drifted past the boy, searching as if for a reply hidden among the long shadows stretching across the ground.
"No," he said at last, his voice emerging slowly, like grains of sand falling one by one. "It's only difficult when someone is unsure."
The boy did not move, only looked deeper into him. "And you're not uncertain?"
Aren met the boy's gaze, calm yet profound, like the surface of water reflecting the evening sky.
"I am not uncertain."
The words came easily—too easily—as though they had long been waiting at the edge of his lips. Yet it was precisely because of that ease that something faint lingered beneath them—a hidden uncertainty veiled behind his firmness.
The boy smiled—a small, genuine smile, as though that answer alone was enough to confirm something he had already chosen to believe. "That's what I thought," he said, his voice light, almost relieved. "You don't look uncertain."
Aren lowered his head slightly, a simple gesture that cast the shadow of his face onto the ground. His silence returned, deeper this time, as if he were speaking inwardly to himself within the stillness. The evening breeze drifted softly, carrying the scent of dust and lingering sweat, while the yard that had once been noisy now felt like an empty space, leaving only the two of them behind.
The boy hesitated, then added—almost like a quiet reflection—words that seemed directed more to himself than to Aren.
"I think this is better."
Aren's expression did not change; his face remained calm, almost without a ripple. "Better?"
"Yes." The boy nodded, this time more firmly, as though he had found solid ground within himself. "Everyone else just swings their swords. But you…" He made a faint gesture with his hand, a small movement reaching for the right words. "You're doing something truly important."
Silence followed—long and weighty, like air pressing down between them. Aren could have corrected him. He could have said that training mattered, that discipline was the foundation, that every action, in its place, carried purpose. He could have insisted it was not merely empty motion.
He could have.
But he did not.
Instead, he spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper that blended with the morning wind:
"There are many ways to fulfill one's duty."
The boy's smile widened, simple yet full of conviction. "I know..."
Aren watched him for a moment longer, his gaze deep yet unreadable, as though weighing something far greater than this brief exchange. Then, with a slow movement, he lowered his head once more, letting the shadow of his face fall to the ground, and continued on his way.
His footsteps sounded calm, rhythmic—like the ticking of time resuming after being held still. The boy remained behind, standing quietly, watching him leave with a feeling that bordered on awe—an awe born not from full understanding, but from the conviction that he had just witnessed something different, something larger than himself.
——— !!! ———
The incident did not end there, though it was rare. Over the following days, the pattern repeated itself in different forms. Sometimes it came as an offhand remark, tossed casually into larger conversations. Sometimes it appeared as a fleeting glance, a gaze that lingered just a little longer than it should. At other times, conversations abruptly halted when he approached—only to resume in a different tone once he had passed, as though his very presence altered the color of their voices.
"…that one—he's the one I told you about."
"…they say he spends hours in prayer…"
"…that must take a different kind of discipline…"
"…not like the others…"
These words were not like the usual gossip that drifted through the air, quick to scatter, break apart, and dissolve into the noise. This time, the words seemed to carry a different weight. They did not arrive loudly, nor insistently, nor with demands. But they were steady, like drops of water falling slowly, again and again, until at last they formed a pattern.
Aren was not thirsty for gossip. He did not seek it, did not fan the flames of whispers that spread. Yet he did not reject it either. The words clung to him like a fine dust in the air—barely noticeable at first, light, easy to ignore. But as time passed, as they came more often, he began to realize that the words did not fade. They settled quietly, like shadows that followed his steps.
And in the long silence, Aren began to feel that time itself seemed to slow, giving space for those whispers to grow into something more than mere voices.
——— !!! ———
"People are talking about you."
The voice came from his left this time, quiet, as though piercing through the heavy, chilled air. Aren glanced in that direction, his movement slow, like someone just waking from a long dream.
The same trainee candidate from before leaned against the damp stone wall, arms loosely folded, his body merging with the creeping shadows across the rough surface. His expression hovered between amusement and contemplation, as if weighing something that could never be fully resolved.
"Not really," Aren replied, his voice nearly swallowed by the pressing silence.
"They really are talking about you," said the trainee candidate casually, his tone rolling slowly, like drops of water falling from the ceiling of a cave. "You just don't hear it the way we do."
Aren's steps continued, steady, their rhythm stretching longer, as though each footfall delayed the arrival of the next second. The trainee moved alongside him, their shadows trailing together, lengthening across the cold stone floor.
"They say you've gone beyond all this," he went on, gesturing toward the training grounds still bustling, filled with wooden posts, footprints, and the marks of countless strikes carved into the earth. "That you've chosen something… higher."
Aren's gaze remained fixed forward, piercing into the empty space that seemed to expand without limit.
"People often misunderstand," he said, his voice flat yet carrying a faint echo, like a whisper lingering in the air.
"Do they?"
The question hung between them, vibrating in the silence, and Aren did not answer. Quiet crept in, sealing the gaps around them, making time feel as though it had stopped for a moment.
The trainee studied him for a while, eyes narrowing, as if trying to read something hidden beneath Aren's face.
"You don't correct them," he said at last, his tone softer now, almost like a confession.
Aren's expression remained steady, his face like the surface of water untouched by wind. "Not every misunderstanding requires correction."
"True," murmured the trainee, though without harshness. His words fell slowly, like dust settling in the air.
Aren stopped walking. His steps halted abruptly, as though his body refused to continue the rhythm that had stretched too long.
The trainee took another step before realizing, then turned slightly back. His movement faltered, like someone who had just noticed something missing from the space around him.
"What is it?"
Aren looked at him, a gaze deep and heavy, as though piercing beyond the face before him.
"You think… I'm the one who drew all this out," he said, his voice low, almost like a murmur born from within himself.
"I suppose you didn't stop it from happening," the trainee replied, his tone not accusatory, merely stating something that had long settled.
Aren looked at him. His gaze did not shift, did not break—only silence, like time refusing to move.
Then—
"Perhaps," he said slowly, his voice almost a whisper threading through the cold air, "they're simply realizing something you haven't."
The words hung between them, suspended like a thin mist reluctant to fade.
Not harsh.
But not without weight.
Each syllable seemed to press against the space around them, stretching the passage of time longer than usual.
The trainee's eyebrows lifted slightly, a small movement that only deepened the silence.
"...Perhaps," he said, this time more firmly, though still with a restrained tone.
Yet something had changed—a thin certainty, like a fine line beginning to appear on the surface of water once still.
Aren resumed walking. His footsteps rang clear, echoing against the stone floor, as though each strike marked a long pause between one second and the next.
This time, the trainee did not follow. He remained where he was, letting the distance slowly form, letting Aren's shadow recede until his figure seemed to merge with the corridor stretching endlessly ahead.
Aren and the other trainees then returned to their own activities, as though the earlier conversation had been nothing more than a small ripple on the surface of a long day. They went back to unfinished tasks in the barracks, carried on with training in bodies weary yet disciplined, and filled their free time with simple diversions. The sound of footsteps, brief laughter, and light chatter began to fill the air again, like a river finding its course after being held still.
Inside the barracks, people sought ways to occupy their time. Some sat in circles, playing small games with stones or worn cards; others talked while cleaning their equipment; and some simply lay down, letting their thoughts drift elsewhere. The atmosphere was not loud, but enough to give the sense that life continued to move forward, even if slowly.
"Hey, Aren, can you help me over here for a moment?"
The voice broke through the flow of routine, coming from the direction of the training grounds. A tall blond man with green eyes, about Aren's age, waved from near the archery range. His gesture was relaxed yet clear, as though pulling Aren out of the circle of his thoughts. The lingering glow of dusk reflected off his hair, making him appear as if he stood at the edge of fading light.
"Of course," Aren said as he stepped toward his friend. His voice was calm, tinged with curiosity.
"Caster, it's unusual for you to need my help?... oh…" he asked, half in jest, half in wonder. Indeed, Caster was as self-reliant as Aren—he could do almost everything on his own. Both of them shared the same tall, muscular build, figures accustomed to bearing weight without complaint. But this time, something had truly made Caster seek assistance.
Caster chuckled—a short, light laugh, as though brushing away any sense of seriousness. He stood beside large wooden crates filled with dozens of archery tools. The wood looked sturdy, but clearly heavy, and the evening shadows falling across their surfaces made the rough lines of the crates appear deeper. Caster tapped one of them with his palm, the sound echoing softly in the cooling air.
"Help me move these crates to the storage," he said, his tone relaxed, as if the request were nothing more than a small part of routine.
Aren nodded without many words, then grasped the side of the wooden crate. Its weight pressed against his muscles, yet their movements together were steady, like a simple dance the body already understood. Step by step, they carried the boxes safely to the storage, the sound of wood striking against the ground forming a rhythm that filled the silence.
As they worked, they chatted lightly about various things. The conversation was not deep, more like a gentle stream accompanying the task. Mostly about food—about the warm bread they once tasted at the market, about the simple soup served in the barracks, about the hunger now beginning to stir in their stomachs. Caster, with eyes gleaming in enthusiasm, clearly loved food, and Aren could only smile at how seriously his friend spoke of such small things.
Between the weight of the wood and the light laughter, time seemed to slow. Dusk seeped deeper, and their talk of food became a simple reminder that even amid training and heavy duties, there was still space for comfort—for hunger that could be laughed at together.
——— !!! ———
The day passed smoothly. As the sun sank lower and the yard emptied once more, Aren stood alone near the edge of the stone. Orange light crept across the wall's surface, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch time itself, delaying the step toward night. The shadows moved slowly, like invisible hands measuring seconds with eternal patience.
The place felt familiar, comforting, as though it had never changed. The air carried the scent of cool earth, mingled with the lingering dampness left by the day. The distant sound of the last birds returning to their nests gradually faded, leaving behind an ever-widening emptiness. Aren closed his eyes—not entirely out of habit, but because it was easier, simpler than staring at a world that refused to stop moving.
The noise of the world faded, like foam dissolving at last into the surface of water, vanishing without a trace. The tension that had clung to his body slipped away, leaving behind an empty space that demanded nothing of him. A space that did not force, did not press—only existed, like a blank page waiting for ink, or air filling his lungs without his awareness.
And in its place—silence. A silence he understood, one that asked nothing of him. A silence that did not insist on being filled, did not demand answers, did not call for decisions. It simply was, like the evening light slowly dimming, like shadows stretching without sound. The silence wrapped around him, not as a burden, but as a thin blanket of calm, making him feel as though the world had paused for a moment to give him space.
The twilight shadows grew longer, and time seemed to stop all around him. Aren stood still, letting the silence seep in, letting the world slow until it almost ceased to move.
The diversity of the world did not draw his attention away from his Lord. He moved with quiet steps, gestures that had become part of him, like a river that always returns to the sea. With steady rhythm, he washed his face, feeling the cold water touch his skin, as though cleansing not only dust but also the layers of unrest clinging to him. He washed his hands slowly, fingers that daily gripped weapons now submitting to simplicity. A little of his hair he dampened, then his feet—each motion carried out with consistent rhythm, full awareness, without haste.
The place was clean, simple, yet felt like a space set apart from the world. The evening light filtering through cracks in the wall fell softly across the floor, drawing thin lines that seemed to mark the passage of time. The air carried the scent of cool earth, mingled with a silence that grew ever deeper.
Each movement he performed was for his Lord alone. There were no spectators, no judgment—only himself and the Creator. The focus he gathered was born of sincerity, of a clear desire to ask, to draw near, to surrender all that lay beyond his control.
It was the clarity of his heart that allowed him to come this close to his Lord. In that silence, he felt the distance between himself and the world widening, while the distance between himself and his Lord narrowed. As though time itself had stopped, allowing him to sink into a prayer that required no words—only presence.
At the end, he raised his hands, a simple gesture yet full of meaning, as though his body had long been accustomed to a rhythm that never truly faded. His lips once again uttered the prayers he always recited, words flowing slowly, as if drawn from the depths of his soul. These prayers were not mere sounds, but pulses that merged with his being, part of something older than memory.
He offered his prayers with sincerity, lifted in hope and humility. Amid the worldly unrest that pressed upon him, among the whispers of problems haunting his mind, he still knew that all things unfolded only by his Lord's permission. It was guidance and answers he continued to seek, until his chest slowly felt lighter, as though the burdens pressing down were released one by one.
When he opened his eyes, the courtyard was empty.
The trace of his last movement had vanished, as though time itself had erased it without a sound.
Only the fading light remained, stretching long shadows across the stone, shadows that moved slowly in step with the sinking sun. The air grew colder, heavier, and silence seeped into every corner of the space.
Aren stood there a moment longer, letting himself merge with that silence, letting the world slow until it almost ceased to move.
Then he turned—
And walked away.
His steps were steady, unhurried, leaving behind a space that slowly began to shape him in ways he did not yet fully understand. As though that place, with all its silence and twilight shadows, was planting something within him—a seed not yet visible, but one day destined to grow.