"Fire destroys evidence. So does silence." — Aldric Varn, on survival
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He went back to the cottage. The sky was still dark. He had maybe an hour until first light. He packed. Journal in the bag, against his back. Crystal in his boot, wrapped in leather — he'd read enough to know catalysts could be traced; the less it touched the air, the better. Letter in the inner pocket. Clothes. Dried meat from the cold-store. Water in the flask. The knife. The whole life fit in one bag. He left the river stone in his pocket — the one from the sill, the one Aldric had put in his hand. He didn't look at the cellar again. He didn't look at the grave. Everything that didn't fit he left standing. The workbench. The shelves. The key in the floor. Someone would find the hatch eventually. Not the contents. Not the truth. He took the lamp and went to the hearth. Lit a twist of straw from the coals. Carried it to the curtain. To the bedding. Training. Fire destroys evidence. He didn't let himself think about the oak table or the river stone on the sill or the path to the eastern snares. He thought about Aldric's voice. *Nobody should find what was in that cellar.*
Then he burned the cottage.
Not grief. Training. Fire destroys evidence. Aldric's voice in his head, and Aldric's rules. Nobody should find what was in that cellar. Not the Silver Office, not the Athenaeum, not whatever else was out there watching.
He stood at the treeline while the fire ate through the roof and the walls fell in and the smoke went up grey against a grey sky. The heat reached him in waves. The sound was the sound of something that had been home coming apart. He didn't count the minutes. The journal was in his bag. The crystal was in his boot, wrapped in leather to muffle whatever it was broadcasting. The stone was in his pocket. When the roof went in he turned away.
East. A city he'd never seen. A man he'd never met. A letter fourteen years too late. Aldric had said *Wayfare Road. Caravan to Aldmere.* He had a direction. That was all.
He didn't look back. The first hundred steps were the hardest. The forest closed behind him. The smell of smoke stayed in his clothes. Branches caught his bag. The ground was uneven — roots and frost-heaved soil — and the dark was so complete he had to slow down or risk a turned ankle. He could still smell the smoke. When the wind shifted he could taste it: ash, old wood, the end of something.
He went by the stars when he could see them through the canopy — the wrong stars, the ones that didn't match any map he'd ever known — and when he couldn't, by the slope of the ground. East was downhill here. The Hinterlands tilted toward the coast. Aldric had pointed once, years ago, from the high field behind the cottage. *That way is Aldmere. When you need it.* Kael had been eight. He'd remembered. He walked. The bag rubbed his shoulders. The crystal in his boot was a small pressure against his ankle. He didn't stop.
When his legs gave out he stopped. Found the lee of a fallen log — old oak, bark soft with rot, big enough to block the wind. He pulled his coat tight. Didn't build a fire. The journal said channeling could leave a trace; so could smoke. He wasn't sure how far the cottage glow would carry. He wasn't taking chances. He ate dried meat and drank from his flask and sat with his back against the trunk, the knife across his knees. The cold crept up from the ground. He could hear his own breath. The forest had a smell — pine and rot and the sharpness of frost. No animal came close. No rustle in the undergrowth. No owl. He told himself that was chance. He didn't believe it. He ran a baseline. The log. The knife. The bag between his feet. The stone in his pocket. So he'd know if something changed. The bark was rough through his coat. Above the canopy the sky was black — no moon, no glow from the cottage anymore. He'd walked far enough. Just dark, and cold, and the weight of the stone in his pocket when he closed his hand around it.
Somewhere to the west, the cottage was ash. The fire would burn for hours. By morning there would be nothing but a shell and the cellar underneath, hidden under rubble. The grave would still be there. The oak would still be there. He wouldn't be. He'd be east. He'd be on the road. He'd be someone else — a boy with a bag and a direction and no past that he could afford to show.
He didn't let himself think about that — except he did, in the way you don't choose. The smell of smoke. The shape of the grave under the oak. Sometimes he thought of the river stone in his pocket, and the nights when Aldric had sat with him until his breathing slowed.
That was gone now.
The weight behind his sternum sat there like a stone. He couldn't see the symbols properly in the dark. He pulled the journal out anyway. Opened it. The pages were thin. His father's hand. His father's cipher. Three alphabets, a keyphrase. *Mind the edges.* He'd read that much in the cellar, in the uncoded pages Aldric had left for him. He scratched the first few symbols in the dirt with a stick. The ground was cold. His fingers were stiff. Count which letters appear most often. Look for repeating patterns. Guess common words and work backwards. It was less about genius and more about patience. He tried *father* and *device* and *edges* — nothing lined up. First cipher attempt. The symbols blurred in the dark. His eyes stung. He rubbed the dirt clean and put the journal away. Tomorrow he'd try again. Or the next night. He had nothing but nights now.
Then he heard it.
Singing. Not words. A hum, low and constant, the kind of sound you feel in your teeth. It had been there for a while — he'd thought it was the wind, or his ears. He went still. Listened.
The hum stopped.
Not faded. Stopped. As if it had been waiting for his attention. As if the forest had been holding its breath.
Veil. Perception. The journal had said Veil mages could sense what magic had been used somewhere — and sometimes what someone intended. It was what happened when you listened to the world the right way. He didn't know if this was the world listening back or his own channels half-awake, picking up something that had always been there. He sat in the dark and didn't move. The hum didn't return. His hands were cold. He put them in his pockets and felt the river stone, smooth and cool. *She said they remembered the water.* He didn't know what that meant. He didn't let himself think about Aldric. After a long time he closed his eyes. When he slept it was in fits — half-dreams of the cellar, the lantern, the crack in the table. He woke to grey light and frost on his coat and the sense that the forest had been watching. His legs were stiff. His back ached. He stood and walked.
East, he thought. Wayfare Road. Caravan to Aldmere. The hum had stopped when he listened. He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know if it would come back.
He walked.