The revolver remained pointed at him, and Shura felt the pressure of it more than the weapon itself. The room had become unnaturally quiet, as though even the kettle was hesitant to make noise.
A sharp headache pulsed behind his eyes, and his hand instinctively rose toward his forehead.
Halvic noticed immediately.
The old man's expression didn't soften, but something in his gaze shifted. The suspicion remained, yet it was joined by something else evaluation.
After a moment, the revolver lowered slightly.
"Sit down before you fall over."
Shura blinked.
For a second he wasn't sure he had heard correctly.
"What?"
"I said sit."
Halvic turned back toward the stove.
"Or don't. Makes no difference to me."
The revolver never left his hand, which somehow made the invitation less comforting.
Shura slowly pulled out a chair and sat. The wood creaked beneath him.
"Don't move until I come back," Halvic said. "If you do, your life suddenly becomes worth very little."
Water simmered quietly inside a metal pot while tea leaves drifted beneath the surface.
The house felt strange now. Not threatening. Not safe. Simply occupied by a man who had stopped pretending to be harmless.
A few moments later, Halvic poured two cups. One remained beside him while the other slid across the table toward Shura.
"Drink."
Shura looked at the tea, then at the revolver, then back at the tea.
"You threaten people strangely."
"I didn't tell you to talk."
The old man sat opposite him and placed the revolver beside his cup. It rested there within easy reach, neither hidden nor emphasized, yet impossible to ignore.
Finally, Halvic looked up.
"Start talking."
Shura frowned.
"About what?"
"Everything."
The old man's eyes remained fixed on him.
"Start where you started."
For a moment Shura considered refusing. Then he remembered that he was sitting inside a stranger's house while that stranger possessed both tea and a revolver. Cooperation seemed reasonable.
So he began.
He started with Osiris—the rented room, the strange conversations, the obsession with authority, the discussion about Observer-types, and the collapse that had changed everything. Halvic remained silent, so Shura continued.
He described the blood, the smoke leaking from Osiris's eyes, the strangers who appeared afterward, and the way they carried him away.
Only then did Halvic interrupt.
"Smoke."
Shura stopped.
"What?"
"The eyes."
The old man leaned forward slightly.
"You saw smoke."
"Yes."
"What kind?"
The question felt oddly specific. Shura thought for a moment.
"Not like fire."
Halvic waited.
"It looked..." Shura searched for the words. "Like something leaving."
For the first time, a faint change crossed Halvic's face. It vanished almost immediately.
Then he gestured for him to continue.
So Shura moved on to the library, the hidden section, the records about Observer-types, and the descriptions that matched Osiris almost perfectly.
This time Halvic interrupted much faster.
"The book."
"What about it?"
"Who showed it to you?"
"No one."
The answer earned a long look.
"I found it myself."
Halvic didn't appear convinced. Yet he didn't argue, and somehow that bothered Shura more than disbelief would have.
He continued.
He told him about the cloth shop and the fight, the corrupted veins and unnatural movements, the reflections and the smoke.
Then came the Knight.
The severed arm.
The disappearance.
As the story unfolded, the room seemed to grow quieter. Not because less was happening, but because Halvic was listening more carefully.
The tea cooled untouched between them while the wind outside stirred the branches of the golden tree.
Eventually Shura reached the end.
Silence followed.
The natural kind that settles after a long explanation.
Halvic stared into his cup for several seconds. He didn't look surprised. He looked thoughtful, and that distinction felt important.
Finally, he spoke.
"You think I'm stupid, boy?"
The question caught Shura off guard.
"What? I'm not lying."
Halvic raised his eyes.
"Then answer something."
His voice remained calm.
"When you told me about Osiris, you said he disappeared."
Shura frowned.
"So?"
"You could've said they took him."
Halvic's gaze sharpened.
"You could've said strangers carried him away."
A pause.
"But you didn't."
The old man leaned back slightly.
"You said he disappeared."
The word hung between them.
"Why?"
Shura opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. Because he wasn't entirely sure. The answer had felt obvious when he said it.
Now it didn't.
"Answer."
This time Halvic picked up the revolver.
He simply held it.
The gesture was enough.
Shura rubbed his forehead.
"The Registry."
Halvic's expression didn't change.
"The Registry?"
"When Orin took me there."
Shura lowered his eyes briefly.
"They told me that people who aren't registered don't exist. If you aren't written down, you're nobody."
Halvic remained silent.
So Shura continued.
"And the Keeper Station."
For the first time, a small but unmistakable reaction crossed Halvic's face. That finally drew a reaction from Halvic, slight but real.
"The Keeper Station?"
Shura nodded.
"The wall."
"What wall?"
"The faces."
The old man's eyes narrowed slightly.
"The wall covered in photographs."
Shura frowned as he remembered it.
"It didn't feel like records."
"What did it feel like?"
The answer came immediately.
"It felt like they were trying to remember people."
The answer left the room quieter than before.
Halvic didn't respond immediately.
He sat there with one hand resting against the side of his cup, his eyes lowered toward the tea instead of Shura.
The steam had long since faded.
Outside, the wind moved softly through the branches of the golden tree.
For some reason, Shura found himself looking toward the revolver resting near Halvic's hand.
The weapon hadn't moved since the conversation began.
Neither had the old man.
Yet the room felt completely different now than it had when he first entered.
Less hostile.
Not safer.
Just... different.
As though Halvic had stopped deciding whether Shura was dangerous and started deciding something else entirely.
Shura wasn't sure which possibility worried him more.
Eventually Halvic lifted the cup and took a slow drink.
His gaze remained fixed on the dark surface of the tea.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded quieter than before.
"You notice too much."
The words sounded less like criticism and more like exhaustion.
Outside, the golden leaves rustled softly in the darkness.