The journey to Oakhaven was completed under a shroud of muted tension and strategic silence. The merchant Borin's revelation about 'Legacy Skills' had turned a personal, shameful secret into a historical problem with potentially dire implications. It hung over the family like a second, heavier fog.
Oakhaven itself was a welcome distraction—a bustling market town three times the size of Grisel, ringed by a wooden palisade and teeming with life. Carts laden with goods clogged the main thoroughfare, the air rich with the smells of baking bread, smoked fish, and the earthy scent of livestock from the pens. Stall vendors hawked everything from enchanted trinkets to mundane vegetables, their voices rising in a constant, vibrant clamor. For a moment, Tadao could almost forget the gnawing dread and simply be awed by the living, breathing fantasy world around him.
But the purpose of their visit cut the wonder short. After seeing Borin and his wagons safely to the merchant's guild warehouse and collecting their pay—a modest pouch of bronze and silver Dial—Etsuo gathered them in the relative quiet of a public fountain square.
"We have a decision," she said, her voice low. The silver of her armor reflected the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves of a large oak tree at the square's center. "We can stay in Oakhaven, take on more guild work, and build our resources. Or we can pursue the lead Borin gave us." She looked at each of them in turn. "The Abbey of the Silent Scribes is a day's travel north. According to the guild bulletin, the road is safe but the monks themselves are… insular. They do not welcome casual visitors."
Fumiko adjusted her glasses, her fingers trembling only slightly. "If they possess lore on Legacy Skills… it's our best chance to understand what's happening to us. To find a way to control it, or… or remove it."
Rin crossed her arms, her axe slung across her back. "A day's trek into the boonies to beg for information from a bunch of hermits who don't like people. Sounds like a blast." Her sarcasm was thin, masking the anxiety Tadao had seen during his night watch. "What's the alternative? Wait until one of us gets a… a craving in the middle of a monster hunt? Or in town?"
The unspoken image—of one of them succumbing to Skill XXX in a public place, with Tadao as a helpless witness—was chillingly clear. Tadao found his voice. "We go. Now. The sooner we get answers, the sooner we can make a plan." He touched the hilt of his short sword. "My dash… it might be useful for scouting the area. Getting a look at the place before we just knock on the front door."
Etsuo gave a slow, approving nod. "A prudent approach. We will go. But we move with caution. We know nothing of this abbey or its guardians. We are seeking knowledge, not a fight." Her gaze lingered on Rin and Fumiko. "And we must be vigilant… with ourselves."
They resupplied quickly—dried rations, fresh water, basic healing salves—and left Oakhaven by the northern gate before the afternoon sun began to wane. The road quickly turned from a well-traveled trade route into a narrower, less-maintained track that wound its way into rolling, forested hills. The air grew cooler, the sounds of civilization fading behind them, replaced by the whisper of wind through pine needles and the occasional cry of a hawk.
The family walked in their now-familiar formation: Etsuo and Rin at the front, Tadao and Fumiko a few paces behind. The silence between the sisters was less charged than before, but it was a conscious, fragile thing. They were allies in a shared predicament, not confidantes.
Tadao used the time to practice. Not with his sword, but with his perception. He tried to notice everything: the way the light fell through the canopy, the patterns in the bird calls, the faint animal trails that branched off from the path. He was thinking like a thief, like a scout. It was a mental shift that felt strangely natural. He also experimented with Thief's Dashin short, controlled bursts when the path was clear, not to cover distance, but to change his angle of view. A quick, blurring sidestep into the underbrush and back, seeing the road from a new perspective. It was disorienting, but each time, the dizziness subsided a fraction faster.
Fumiko watched him during one of these attempts, a faint, worried crease between her brows. "You're pushing yourself too hard," she said as he reappeared beside her, slightly breathless.
"I'm learning," he countered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "It's not just a straight-line sprint. I can change direction mid-dash, if I focus. It's like… my body wants to go where my eyes look, for a split second."
"That could be useful," she admitted. "But if you misjudge and dash into a tree…"
"I won't," he said, with more confidence than he felt. He glanced at her. "Are you… feeling okay?"
She understood his meaning. Her cheeks colored, but she didn't look away. "The… urge is quiet. For now. It's like a background noise. But I can feel the new magic. The wind affinity." She held out a hand, and a tiny, controlled breeze swirled around her fingertips, lifting a few strands of her long black hair. "It's powerful. It wants to be used. And knowing where it came from makes it feel… dirty."
"It's not you," Tadao said firmly. "It's something that was done to you. We're going to fix it."
She gave him a small, grateful smile, the first genuine one he'd seen from her in days. "You sound like Papa when you say things like that."
The comparison warmed him, pushing back the chill of the forest shadows.
They made camp at dusk in a shallow cave off the trail, a natural formation that offered shelter from the deepening cold of the mountain foothills. Etsuo took the first watch, and the others settled into their bedrolls. Sleep was slow to come, the weight of tomorrow's uncertainty a physical pressure.
Tadao was drifting off when he heard it—a soft, rhythmic scraping sound from the mouth of the cave. He opened his eyes. Etsuo was seated on a rock, her back to them, but she wasn't looking out at the night. She was sharpening her spear with a whetstone, the movement slow, methodical, almost meditative. The sound was steady, but her shoulders were rigid.
He realized she was afraid. His mother, the unshakable warrior, was afraid of what they might find. Afraid of what they might learn about themselves. The sight was more terrifying than any monster.
*
The Abbey of the Silent Scribes appeared as the trail crested a final hill late the next morning. It was not the grandiose, soaring cathedral Tadao had half-expected from the name. It was a stark, functional complex built of grey mountain stone, nestled against a cliff face as if seeking shelter. A high, windowless wall surrounded a cluster of squat, blocky buildings, with a single, iron-bound wooden gate visible from their vantage point. A thin plume of smoke rose from a central chimney. The only signs of life were a few crows circling one of the towers and the faint, distant toll of a deep-toned bell, marking the hours.
"Fortified," Rin observed quietly, crouching behind a screen of scrubby pines. "Looks more like a keep than a library."
"Knowledge is power," Fumiko murmured, her scholar's mind engaged. "And power must be protected. If they truly guard ancient secrets, it makes sense."
Etsuo studied the layout. "The main gate is the only obvious entrance. A direct approach may see us turned away before we can state our business." She turned to Tadao. "This is where your new thinking comes in. Can you get a closer look? Scout the perimeter, find a secondary point of entry, or at least gauge their security? Do not be seen."
Tadao's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. A real test. Not of strength, but of stealth. Of usefulness. "I can," he said, hoping his voice didn't crack.
"I'm going with him," Rin said suddenly.
Etsuo's head snapped around. "Rin—"
"He's fast, but he's not a fighter if he gets caught," Rin argued, her voice low and intense. "I can provide a distraction if needed, or cover his retreat. And…" She hesitated. "I need to do something. Sitting here waiting makes my skin crawl."
Etsuo considered, her eyes flicking between her son's determined face and her daughter's restless energy. Finally, she nodded. "Very well. But you are observers only. Do not engage. If there is any sign of trouble, you fall back immediately. We will wait here."
Tadao and Rin shared a brief, grim nod. They moved off the path, circling wide through the trees to approach the abbey from the eastern side, where the cliff face met the wall. The ground was uneven, littered with loose shale and pine cones, but Rin moved with a hunter's silence, and Tadao found himself mimicking her, placing his feet with care.
They reached the tree line about fifty yards from the abbey's eastern wall. Up close, the stonework was imposing, seamless and at least fifteen feet high. No handholds. Tadao's eyes traced its length. "There," he whispered, pointing.
Near the cliff face, a section of the wall was slightly lower, where the natural rock rose to meet it. A gnarled, ancient pine tree grew stubbornly from a crack in the cliff, one of its thick, horizontal branches extending to within a few feet of the wall's top.
"A possible entry point," Rin agreed. "But getting to that branch from here would mean climbing the cliff. And we'd be in the open." She scanned the area. The ground between the trees and the wall was bare, rocky earth. No cover.
"I can dash across," Tadao said, the idea forming as he spoke. "It's about forty feet. I can cover it in a blink. From the base of the cliff, I can climb to that branch. You stay here, watch the gate and this section. If anyone comes, signal me."
"Signal how?" Rin raised an eyebrow.
Tadao thought fast. He picked up a small, smooth stone. "Throw this. Hit the wall near me. One bounce means 'get ready to run.' Two quick bounces means 'danger, get out now.'"
Rin took the stone, weighing it in her palm. A faint, approving smirk touched her lips. "Not bad, twerp. Alright. Go. And for the love of the goddess, be quiet."
Tadao took a deep breath, focusing on the rough stone at the base of the cliff. He let his body relax, then pushed. The world blurred. A surge of motion, the ground a streak beneath him, the air ripping past his ears. It was over before he could process the sensation. He stumbled as he materialized, his boots scraping on the shale, but he caught himself against the cold cliff face, heart pounding. He glanced back. Rin was a barely-visible shape in the trees. She gave a slight, slow wave.
So far, so good.
The climb was harder. The cliff was weathered but not sheer, offering enough crevices and protrusions for hand and footholds. His muscles burned, unused to this kind of exertion. He focused on each move, ignoring the ache. After what felt like an eternity, he hauled himself onto the thick, rough-barked pine branch. It groaned under his weight but held. He was now level with the top of the wall.
He peered over. The interior of the abbey was a courtyard of packed dirt, surrounded by the plain stone buildings. He saw a covered well, a vegetable garden laid out in neat rows, and a line of washing hung out to dry—simple, rough-spun robes. A single monk, hood drawn up against the mild chill, was slowly sweeping the steps of the largest building with a birch-twig broom. The scene was one of austere, peaceful industry.
No visible guards. No patrols. But the silence was profound. The only sounds were the swish of the broom and the cawing of the crows.
His eyes tracked along the wall from his vantage point. To his left, he saw a smaller, secondary building built right against the interior of the wall. Its roof was slanted, and a simple wooden shutter was partially open, revealing darkness within. A scriptorium? A storage room? It was his best bet.
He looked back at Rin, held up a hand with two fingers extended—his sign for 'target identified'—then pointed toward the building. She nodded.
Now for the hard part. The gap between the pine branch and the top of the wall was about four feet. He could jump it, but the landing would be noisy. He needed his dash. But dashing in a straight line was one thing. Dashing upwards, with precision…
He crouched on the branch, eyeing the specific spot on the wall's crest he wanted to land on—a flat, wide coping stone. He focused, imagining the path not as distance, but as a point in space. He pushed.
The dash felt different this time. There was a lurch, a sense of his body being yanked upward. One moment he was on the branch, the next he was standing on the wall, crouched low, his balance precarious. He hadn't run the line; he'd almost teleported to the spot. The disorientation was intense, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He clutched the cold stone, breathing slowly through his nose until the world stopped spinning.
New application: vertical dash. Noted.
He was exposed on the wall. He dropped flat, belly against the stone, and peered back into the courtyard. The monk was still sweeping, his back to Tadao's position. No alarm.
Moving with painstaking slowness, Tadao slithered along the wall's top toward the building with the open shutter. The roof slanted down from the wall, meeting it at a steep angle. He could slide down the roof tiles and hopefully slip through the shutter.
He was about to move when a door on the main building opened, and two more monks emerged. They spoke in low, murmuring tones, their words impossible to distinguish at this distance. They walked toward the garden. Tadao froze, willing himself to become part of the stone.
The sweeping monk paused, looked up at the two newcomers, and nodded. They began a conversation. This was his chance—their attention was diverted.
He swung his legs over the side of the wall, gripping the edge, and lowered himself until he was dangling. With a silent prayer, he let go, dropping the short distance onto the slate roof. The impact was a soft thump, and the tiles shifted slightly under his weight with a faint scrape. He held his breath.
Below, the monks didn't react. The conversation continued.
He crawled down the slope on hands and knees, his leather-wrapped palms making little sound. The open shutter was just ahead, a square of darkness. He reached it, peered inside. It was a small room, lined with shelves holding hundreds of scrolls in neat, cylindrical cases. Dust motes danced in the thin shaft of light from the shutter. A scriptorium. Perfect.
He slipped inside, landing softly on a wooden floor worn smooth by centuries of use. The air was cool and smelled of old parchment, ink, and beeswax. He closed the shutter most of the way, leaving only a crack for light.
The room was a treasure trove. Scrolls were organized on shelves, but there were no labels he could read—the script was an unfamiliar, flowing calligraphy. He moved to a large, heavy desk where an open scroll was partially unrolled, held down by polished stone weights. He peered at it. Diagrams of celestial bodies, complex geometric patterns, and blocks of dense text. Nothing about Legacy Skills.
He needed to find an archive, a catalogue. He moved to the door leading deeper into the building. It was unlocked. He cracked it open. A dimly lit corridor stretched in both directions, lined with more doors. Silence, deeper than the courtyard.
This was reckless. He was in too deep. But the thought of returning to his mother and sisters empty-handed, of their desperate hope turning to ash, propelled him forward. He chose the left corridor, moving on the balls of his feet, his ears straining for any sound.
The third door on the right was larger, more ornate. A symbol was carved into the dark wood—an open eye superimposed over a closed book. He tried the handle. Locked.
Of course. The important room would be locked. He examined the lock. It was a heavy, iron mechanism, complex but not magical-looking. He was no lockpick. But maybe…
He placed his hand on the door, near the lock. He focused on the space just beyond the door. Could he dash through a barrier? The thought was insane. The dash was for movement across open space. Trying to phase through solid wood could get him stuck, or worse.
A sound from down the hall made him freeze—the soft click of a door opening. Footsteps, slow and measured, approaching.
Panic sparked in his chest. He looked left, right. No alcoves, no other doors. He was exposed. The footsteps grew nearer.
Instinct took over. He didn't think about the mechanics, only the desperate need to be not here. He focused on the patch of shadowy corridor just around the bend ahead, a spot he could see but hadn't walked to. He pushed.
The world dissolved into a nauseating swirl of greys and blacks. There was a moment of terrifying pressure, a sense of something solid and unyielding brushing against his consciousness—the wall of the corridor?—and then he was stumbling into existence around the corner, gasping for air. He'd done it. A short-range dash through his own line of sight, not around an obstacle. It had felt wrong, like forcing his body through a keyhole.
He pressed himself against the wall, listening. The footsteps reached the spot where he'd just been, paused for a moment, then continued past the locked door and faded away down the opposite corridor.
He let out a shuddering breath. That was too close. He needed to get out. He had learned nothing useful, only that the abbey was larger than it looked and contained at least one secured room. He had to retreat.
Retracing his steps to the scriptorium was tense, every shadow a potential monk. He slipped back into the room with the scrolls, opened the shutter, and climbed back onto the roof. Getting back up to the wall was harder; he had to scramble up the slick tiles, using cracks and gaps for grip. From the roof to the wall's top, he had to jump and catch the edge, hauling himself up with a grunt of effort that sounded thunderous in his own ears.
He lay on the wall again, scanning the courtyard. The monks were gone. The yard was empty. He located the pine branch, gauged the distance. A straightforward dash this time. He pushed off, appearing on the branch with a soft thud. He climbed down the cliff, his arms trembling with fatigue, and dashed the final stretch back to the tree line, collapsing next to Rin.
"Well?" she whispered, her eyes wide.
"Locked door. Guarded, but not heavily. I didn't find anything." He felt a surge of failure. "I'm sorry."
"Did you get caught?"
"No."
"Then it's not a failure." She helped him up. "You got in and out. You confirmed there's something worth locking up. And you," she added, looking at him with a new respect, "you moved like a ghost. Let's get back to Mama."