The path wound upward through pine and stone, carrying with it the smell of moss and morning rain. Ryen followed it without hurry, eyes catching the faint line of smoke that curled above the ridge. At its peak, the village revealed itself—small but sturdier than most, clustered around a weathered shrine that rose above the rooftops like a watchful elder.
Bells chimed faintly as he entered. Children darted across the square, chasing each other's laughter. At the shrine's gate, an old caretaker swept with a broom older than himself, strokes uneven, his back bent.
Ryen paused. "You'll break your spine that way."
The caretaker looked up, startled. "Eh? And who're you to—" He froze as Ryen quietly took the broom and set it to stone. His strokes were steady, precise, the dust rising in neat swirls that caught the sunlight.
The old man gaped. "By the gods… you sweep like a priest."
"I'm not," Ryen replied.
"Then what are you?"
He did not answer.
---
By evening the village knew of the stranger who had polished the shrine's steps in an hour. Some came to see: wives with water jars, youths with curious eyes, even Father Jorn, the shrine's priest, a stern man with a voice like gravel.
"Discipline," Jorn muttered, watching the broom flow in silent rhythm. "Discipline like this belongs here." He crossed his arms. "Stay, stranger. The shrine could use such hands."
Ryen looked up once, then returned to sweeping. "For a while."
---
The days unfolded.
At dawn he washed the steps until they gleamed. At noon he trimmed weeds, patched lanterns, stacked offerings neatly. In the evenings he cooked beside the caretaker, his meals simple but warm.
"Never seen the place shine like this," the caretaker marveled. "Folk are comin' to pray who ain't stepped foot here in years."
And so they did. The shrine began to hum with life. Villagers lingered longer, left flowers and candles, whispered blessings. Children ran laughing through the courtyard. Even Father Jorn's voice softened.
Yet always, beside them, Ryen's silence.
---
One afternoon a girl tripped on the steps, scattering fruit offerings. She froze, trembling.
Ryen knelt, gathering the fruit. "The stones are too smooth now," he said softly. "Walk slower."
The girl blinked, then giggled, her laughter ringing bright against his quiet tone. She ran off with her basket.
From then on, villagers began to notice. A word here, a gesture there, advice given without flourish yet remembered like scripture. His silence became part of the shrine itself.
---
But not all found peace in it.
Some nights, young men drinking by the gate muttered among themselves.
"Doesn't it bother you?" one said. "That quiet of his. Too quiet."
"Eh, he keeps the shrine clean. Let him be."
"No, listen. It's like—when he's near, the songs in my head go off-key. You don't feel it?"
The others frowned uneasily. "Maybe… maybe a bit."
---
Weeks passed. The shrine flourished. Festivals returned. Lanterns lit the square, drums echoed through the night. Children tugged Ryen's sleeves, begging him to eat. Women left him baskets of food. Even Father Jorn admitted, "You've restored more than walls here. You've restored spirit."
Ryen only shook his head. "It's not mine to keep."
---
It was during the harvest festival, when the square was bright with fires and layered song, that the hum changed.
At first it was subtle, a low vibration beneath the music. Then it thickened, pressing into ears and bones, until voices faltered and drums slowed. Villagers turned toward the shrine steps, where a tall figure approached.
A monk. Robes heavy, staff in hand, his shaved head gleaming under lantern-light. The air around him thrummed with a monotone resonance, oppressive and unwavering.
Whispers spread like sparks:
"The overseer…"
"That's Master Halven. He tends the shrines of three valleys."
"Why is he here?"
Halven's gaze swept the crowd before landing on Ryen, who stood at the steps with a broom in hand.
"So," the monk said, voice like a drumbeat, "this is the one who stirs disorder with silence."
Father Jorn stepped forward quickly. "Master Halven, this man has served us well—he's brought life back to the shrine. Surely—"
"Life?" Halven's hum deepened, vibrating the ground. "Do you not hear it? Your harmony bends when he enters. He warps the song of the world."
The crowd stirred uneasily. Ryen said nothing.
Halven strode forward, staff ringing against stone. "Answer me, stranger. What are you?"
Ryen met his eyes. "A man who sweeps."
A ripple of laughter broke from the crowd—but was silenced instantly as Halven's staff struck the ground. "Mockery!" he roared.
And before anyone could move, he swung. The staff cracked across Ryen's shoulder, dropping him to one knee. Gasps rose.
"Master!" cried Father Jorn, stepping forward.
Halven ignored him, striking again, then again. Ryen crumpled, his breaths sharp, his body marked by the blows. Children screamed. Women wept. Yet none dared move against the monk, for the monotone hum pressed like chains around their throats.
Through it all, Ryen did not cry out.
Finally Halven stopped, chest heaving. His staff hovered above Ryen's head, ready to finish it. The villagers stared, dozens of eyes upon him. His title, his reputation, the sanctity of his vows—all shackled him where his rage urged him to kill.
Slowly, with a trembling breath, he lowered the staff. "You will not last," he hissed, barely audible.
Ryen raised his eyes. Bruised, bloodied, yet silent still.
That night, the shrine was quieter than it had been in months. The lanterns guttered in the square, the laughter of the festival long drowned. In the caretaker's hut, Ryen lay on a reed mat, his chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths.
The old caretaker sat beside him, trembling as he wrung a cloth. "You fool boy," he muttered, voice cracking. "Why didn't you cry out? You'd have lived if you just bent a little."
Ryen's lips curved faintly, though blood painted them. "Crying out… doesn't change the strike."
The old man's hands shook harder. "You'll die if you stay. Don't you see it? He'll come back for you."
Ryen said nothing. His eyes drifted to the roof, following the smoke seeping through broken slats.
By midnight, the children had gathered outside, whispering and sobbing. One little girl pressed her small bundle of herbs to Father Jorn. "This will help him, won't it? Mama says it heals bruises."
Jorn took it, his jaw tight. "It may soothe. But I fear his wounds run deeper than skin."
He entered the hut, kneeling by Ryen. "Why stay silent, boy? You could have pleaded, explained, something. But you gave him nothing, and in return he gave you ruin."
Ryen finally turned his head, his eyes hollow yet steady. "If I break my silence… what will remain?"
Jorn flinched as though struck.
---
By dawn, the villagers returned with food, water, medicines. But when they pushed open the door, the mat lay empty. The herbs remained unused, the bandages untouched. Only a thin trail of blood led to the shrine's steps—ending where the broom leaned, waiting, abandoned.
The caretaker fell to his knees. The children wailed. Jorn closed his eyes, the echo of Ryen's words weighing heavier than the silence he left behind.
And high in the mountains, Master Halven knelt before another shrine, his hum steady, his hands trembling as though he had struck something he could not crush.
---
By dawn, he was gone.
The broom leaned against the steps. The shrine glowed with the polish of his hands, the air heavy with absence. Children searched the corners, women whispered his name, Father Jorn sat heavy-eyed on the steps.
None spoke of Master Halven's beating, yet all remembered it. And some whispered in secret that silence had endured the monotone better than their voices ever could.