The following weeks were filled with a calm that hurt.
I woke early, before the sun, and went out to the pier. Mira came behind me, her eyes still heavy with sleep, the small sword tapping her leg. We trained while the fishermen cast their nets and the seagulls cried. The sea was calm, almost always. The wind, weak. The smell of salt and seaweed had become familiar, almost homely.
"Again," I said.
Mira repeated the movement. Vertical cut. Thrust. Guard. The strikes were no longer clumsy. Slowly, they were taking shape.
"Better," I said.
She smiled. She put away her sword. She ran to breakfast.
---
Fenísia appeared at midday.
She brought bread and cheese, and every so often some dried dates she kept in a cloth bag. We ate on the beach, legs stretched in the sand, eyes on the horizon.
"Today I learned to tie knots," Mira said one of those afternoons. "The fisherman on the red boat taught me. The slipknot. The square knot. The blind knot."
"The blind knot isn't a knot," Fenísia replied.
"Yes it is. It's the one that doesn't come undone."
"That's a square knot."
"No it isn't. The fisherman said so."
Fenísia looked at me, her green eyes shining.
"Do you know how to tie knots?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Will you teach me?"
"You teach me," I replied. "I teach you how to kill."
She laughed. Her laugh was light, like running water.
"Then keep me alive first."
---
I worked at the guild during the afternoon.
Goran, the man at the counter, had me organizing the archive – stacked scrolls, old maps, records of completed missions and dead hunters. The room was dark, damp, smelling of mould and dry ink.
"Don't touch that shelf," Goran warned, pointing to a dusty corner. "Those are the files of those who didn't come back."
"How many are there?" I asked.
"Many."
I leafed through some scrolls. Names. Dates. Descriptions of wounds. Farewell letters that were never sent.
'"If this letter reaches you, it means I am dead. Tell my mother I didn't suffer. Tell my father I forgive him. Tell the little one that monsters are ugly, but there are uglier men than them."'
I folded the scroll. Put it back in its place.
'The dead don't need to be read', I thought.
---
At the end of the day, Fenísia appeared at the guild.
"Are you coming to dinner?" she asked.
"I am."
"Is Mira already at the inn?" she asked.
"She is. The landlady gave her soup and bread."
"Then let's go. There's fish today."
The nights were calm. The tavern "The Last Gulp" filled with mercenaries and fishermen, people who talked loudly and laughed louder. Fenísia always sat beside me. Mira beside her.
"This is Zirinos," Fenísia introduced me to anyone who didn't know me. "He's my friend."
"Friend?" someone would ask.
"Friend," she repeated.
And I didn't deny it.
---
Fenísia liked to tell stories.
She told me that her father, the guild master, had been a great hunter before falling ill. That her mother, Alice, had left for the academy to learn magic and never returned. That her younger sister had died of fever at seven.
"Mira reminds me of her," Fenísia said one night when the girl was already asleep. "The curly hair. The stubbornness. The way she says 'no' without thinking."
"Mira is stubborn," I agreed.
"Like you."
"I'm not stubborn. I'm persistent."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not. Stubbornness is stupidity. Persistence is intelligence."
"And are you intelligent?"
"I appear to be."
She laughed. Then she grew serious.
"You know, Zirinos," she said quietly, "I like you."
"I've noticed."
"It's not just liking. It's… I don't know. You're different. You talk as if you know more than you say. And you look as if you're always waiting for something."
"I am."
"For what?"
"For the next monster."
She did not answer. She just leaned her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled of sea and dried dates.
"I'm afraid," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of you. Of myself. Of the war they say is coming."
"The war is already here."
"Then I'm afraid of the end."
I fell silent. What could I say? That there was no end? That death was just a door? That blood was warm and comfortable?
"The end isn't the worst," I said finally. "The worst is what comes after."
"What?"
"Silence."
---
One night, Fenísia spoke of her brother.
"His name was Milo. He was younger than me. He had no mana, like me. He couldn't retain mana. The doctors said it was a curse. Mother said it was a gift."
"A gift?" I asked.
"So as not to depend on magic. To be strong alone."
"And do you believe it?"
"I do." She looked at her hands. "But he disappeared. He went into the Forest of the Three Warriors. He said he was going to hunt a monster to prove he was strong. He never came back."
"And the guards?"
"The guards said the Contraranures took him. Or the monsters. Or famine. You never know."
"Do you believe he's still alive?"
"I do. I know he is."
I didn't ask how she knew. Perhaps it was the only hope she had left.
"If you ever find him," Fenísia said, "tell him his sister misses him."
"I will."
"And that she forgives him."
"I'll tell him that too."
She leaned her head on my shoulder again. Her hair smelled of the sea.
"You're a good person, Zirinos," she said.
"I'm not."
"You are. You just don't know it.
---
Mira learned to read.
Not alone. The innkeeper, a fat grey‑haired woman named Elara, taught her letters in exchange for help in the kitchen. Mira peeled potatoes, washed dishes, swept the floor. And she learned.
"Zirinos!" she shouted one day. "I already know how to write my name!"
She showed me the paper. M – I – R – A. The letters were big, clumsy, almost illegible.
"It's good," I said.
"Good?" She made a face. "It's beautiful!"
"It's beautiful, yes."
I put the paper in my pocket. Next to the old drawings. Next to the Decetuarius stone.
Mira smiled.
---
Fenísia spoke of Decatry.
"They say it's the most beautiful island in Endomyar," she said one night while we watched the sea. "The trees are blue and red. The flowers have diamond petals. And there are Fortichia grains."
"Fortichia grains?" I asked.
"A plant that cures diseases. It only grows in Decatry. My father ate it once, when he was young. He said it tasted like honey and earth."
"And you want to go there?"
"I do." She looked at me. "I want to see the place where my father died. They say it was in a shipwreck. That the sea took him. That they never found the body."
"And do you believe that?"
"I don't know. But I want to see. I want to taste the grains. I want to know if they taste like honey or earth."
"They taste like honey," I replied. "I had some once. They were given to me."
"By whom?"
"A girl. A chosen one."
"Was she pretty?"
"She was."
"And did you like her?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because she smelled of death."
Fenísia did not ask further.
---
The weeks passed.
The days repeated like waves. Morning training. Afternoon work at the guild. Evening with Mira. Night with Fenísia. Time, there, seemed not to pass. Or it passed too slowly.
I thought of Trussum. Of the Contraranures. Of the war. Of the academy.
'I am hidden', I thought. 'Here no one knows me. No one looks for me.'
'I could stay. I could live. I could forget.'
I looked at Mira. She slept beside me, her hand closed on my tunic.
'She trusts me. Like her mother trusted me. Like Ander trusts me.'
'And I'm going to kill her.'
The truth did not hurt. The truth never hurt. What hurt was the absence of pain.
I blew out the candle.
The room went dark.
Outside, the sea shone.