For a breath, he hesitates.

  Seren notices it without quite knowing why he would be so apprehensive. Aarav stands outside the little stone house, shoulders drawn tight beneath his worn shirt, his attention drifting once to the quiet lane as if he might suggest they move on. This is not the Aarav she has known so far, what could possibly be behind that door to make him pause so?

  Then he knocks.

  Three firm sounds against the wood. Confident, or meant to be. He steps back and smooths his face into that relaxed expression he seems to carry everywhere, as if the world is of no consequence to him. Seren is not sure whether it is real or simply a mask he wears.

  They wait.

  No-one answers. No footsteps, no sounds from within, no sign that anyone has heard at all. The lane behind them lies still, lamplight gathered in soft pools on the cobbles. Moths drift and knock gently at the glass. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks once and then falls silent. Seren feels the grit of the road on her skin and the ache in her calves. She has known worse discomforts, but the waiting unsettles her more than either.

  Aarav knocks again.

  The sound hangs longer this time. Or perhaps her nerves stretch it out. She finds herself counting breaths without meaning to and stops when she realises she is doing it. For a moment she is certain the house must be empty, that no one lives here at all.

  The scrape of a bolt breaks the thought.

  The door opens only a little.

  A man peers out.

  Seren studies him carefully. He seems to be in his 30’s maybe, though the lines around his eyes and mouth give him gravity. His appearance is neat. Hair combed. Clothes clean and plainly made. Respectable. The sort of man she might pass in daylight without giving a second glance.

  And yet there is something about him that makes her hold her breath. Not danger exactly. Just… weight.

  A thin pale mark cuts through one eyebrow, long healed. His born hair and brown eyes are plain but you wouldn’t say that to his face. His hands rest against the doorframe, broad and steady, the knuckles dusted white. Flour maybe, or soot from a hearth. A man who doesn't mind getting his hands dirty.

  A merchant, she decides.

  At least, that is what he looks like.

  The man’s eyes shift.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  They pass over Seren first, briefly, without much interest, and then settle on Aarav.

  Something changes.

  For the space of a single breath he looks wrong somehow, as if the floor has tilted beneath him. His face drains of ease. His eyes widen, then harden. The door opens further and he steps into it fully, blocking the light, shoulders squared, jaw set so tightly Seren half expects to hear his teeth grind.

  “Aarav.”

  The name drops heavy into the night, dull and deep, like a stone thrown down a well.

  Aarav answers with that crooked half smile of his, the one that already is starting to annoy her. “Evening, Calen. You always greet old friends like they are tax collectors, or is this a special occasion.”

  Calen does not return the humour. He does not move aside. He looks at Aarav as if deciding what to do, his gaze slow and assessing in a way that makes Seren’s shoulders draw in without her meaning to.

  “What do you want?”

  The words are flat. A simple question but she can feel the tension rising.

  “To come in,” Aarav says, light as air. “To talk. And to introduce you to my companion, who is kinder than I deserve and better to look at to boot.”

  Seren startles at that, heat touching her cheeks before she can stop it. She is not used to being spoken of like that. So direct and brazen.

  Calen’s eyes flick to her again. This time they linger. Measuring, perhaps. Or merely curious. She cannot tell and dislikes the not knowing. He says nothing for several heartbeats. The silence stretches, taut enough that Seren wonders if she should speak, offer a greeting, apologise for the hour. She does none of those things.

  At last, with visible reluctance, Calen steps aside and gestures them in.

  The house smells clean. Soap, sharp and clean, layered with the faint breath of smoke from a banked fire. Seren enters a small front room where shelves line one wall, stacked neatly with folded cloth and small bundles tied with string. An account book lies open on the table, a piece of charcoal resting in its spine. There is nothing lavish here. No space wasted. Everything sits where it belongs.

  Calen closes the door behind them and leads the way down a short passage into the kitchen.

  The oven glows with a fading orange centre. A kettle waits nearby, cooling. A loaf of bread rests on a board, its crust split and shining. The smell of it pulls hard at Seren’s stomach, sudden and sharp. She swallows and looks away.

  Calen does not offer any food. He does not reach for the kettle. He does not ask if they are tired or hungry or in need of anything at all. Instead he stays close to the table, positioning himself behind it as though it might serve as a barrier between them. Not a guest then, or perhaps quest etiquette is different here.

  Aarav, by contrast, leans against the doorframe like a man entirely at ease. He lets his gaze wander the room, the ceiling, the hearth, smiling faintly as if the silence were nothing more than a pause in pleasant conversation.

  “It has been a while,” he says, bright and easy. “You have kept well. New shutters. Fresh paint. I like what you have done with the place.”

  Calen’s mouth tightens. “Do not play the fool in my house. I have known you to many years to fall for this act.”

  Aarav’s smile narrows, but it does not vanish. “I would never play the fool,” he says mildly. “Not to you. It has been too long since we have seen each other.”

  “What do you want,” Calen asks again, and this time his voice lifts, roughened at the edges.