The Guild messenger stands near us, his gaze sweeping around with careful precision. Ursa’s voice is steady but quiet. “I’ll take you to Elder Sven.” She gestures for me to follow. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should. Ursa catches my hesitation and locks eyes with me—her look leaves no room for doubt.
“Come on, Julie,” she says softly. There’s no impatience in her tone, only quiet reassurance.
I step closer, and as I do, I catch the Guild messenger’s eyes darting toward me. His expression shifts just slightly—surprise. A child in Guild business? Clearly not what he expected.
At Sven’s house, the door swings open before Ursa can knock. Gondo fills the frame, his broad shoulders blocking most of the doorway. He looks at us, eyebrows rising in confusion. “Ursa? Julie?” His gaze shifts to the Guild messenger, lingering on the insignia stitched into his travel-worn cloak. His tone tightens. “And... who’s this?”
The messenger says nothing, his face unreadable. Ursa steps forward.
“We need to see Sven,” she says, her tone low but direct.
Gondo frowns, glancing between us. “What’s this about?” His voice drops, just slightly. “Is something wrong?”
“Not here,” Ursa replies. “Inside.”
For a moment, Gondo doesn't move. Then his jaw tightens, and he steps aside. "Follow me."
He leads us up the narrow staircase to Sven's council room. The steps creak in the familiar places I remember from when Claire first brought me here. She'd grinned as she dragged me up these stairs, whispering, half boasting, half mocking, that her grandfather's "secret council room" was where all the serious decisions happened. Nothing had felt serious to me back then - it was just another part of the house, and I was just a child following her games.
At the top stands the thick oak door, bound with iron rivets. Claire used to point at the deep grooves in the wood, telling stories of villagers trying to force their way in during heated disputes.
I hadn’t understood it then. Now, I think I might.
The room beyond is exactly as I remember it: the round table with its mismatched chairs, some rough and simple, others made with care and detail that speaks of a craftsman’s pride. The wooden shelves still hold the same leather-bound records and rolls of parchment, along with the familiar faded tapestries of harvests and hunts. Sven's family portraits still watch from above, painted faces that seem both stern and weary, like they’ve spent generations bearing witness to the same debates over and over again.
But the room feels different now, even though nothing has changed. Now, It's not just a place in Claire’s grandfather’s house anymore.
Gondo moves to the window and adjusts the wooden shutter, letting in more of the pale morning light. The air smells faintly of incense and parchment, with a lingering hint of ash that makes me wonder if the fireplace has been used recently. He glances at me briefly, his expression unreadable. "I'll fetch Sven," Gondo says gruffly, already halfway out the door.
"Gondo," Ursa says, her tone measured but carrying the weight of a decision già presa. "I want her to stay."
He stops, his hand resting on the doorframe, and turns back slowly. His gaze shifts from Ursa to me, his expression hard to read. "That’s for Sven to decide," he says, his voice low but firm.
"Then Sven can decide when he gets here," Ursa replies, her eyes locked on his. "But maybe it’s time she starts understanding more of what’s happening in this village. She can’t keep living in the dark."
For a moment, Gondo doesn’t say anything. His brow furrows as he looks at me, as though weighing whether or not I belong in this room, in this conversation. Then his jaw tightens. "Fine. We'll see what Sven says."
With that, he turns and disappears down the stairs, the sound of his boots heavy against the worn wood.
The silence he leaves behind feels strange, not oppressive but expectant. I glance at Ursa, hoping for some reassurance, but she’s already moved to the table. One hand rests lightly on its battered surface, her eyes distant, fixed on something I can’t see.
"Thank you," I say softly, unsure if she even hears me.
Ursa turns her head slightly, enough for her profile to catch the light. Her expression isn’t stern, not exactly. It’s thoughtful. "You’ve seen enough shadows, Julie," she says finally, her voice quieter now. "And it’s time you started to see what casts them."
The Guild messenger steps forward then, pulling me out of my thoughts. His boots make no sound on the floorboards as he moves to the table, where he places the folded letter sealed with silver wax. He stands straight-backed and still, his hands clasped behind him, like a soldier waiting for orders.
"I trust this won’t take long," he says, his tone measured and emotionless.
Ursa doesn’t even glance at him. Her eyes are locked on the letter, as if the answer to everything lies beneath that folded paper. "That depends," she says evenly, "on what’s inside."
The air is charged with a tension that no one seems willing to break. Then, the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs echoes from below.
Sven appears in the doorway. He pauses, taking in the room with a single, measured look - Ursa, the Guild messenger, and finally me.
He steps inside and moves to the table, pulling out a chair with a scrape of wood on wood. I shift my weight, suddenly uncertain. Despite Ursa's words, despite everything that's happened, this still feels like stepping into a world I'm not quite meant to be in.
"Elder Sven..." The words come out before I can stop them. I swallow hard and try again. "Should I leave?"
He looks at me for a long moment, then at Ursa. Something passes between them - not quite a nod, but an understanding. "No, Julie." His voice is quiet but certain. "These days, secrets seem to find you whether we try to hide them or not."
He turns his attention to the letter, its silver seal gleaming in the morning light. "Well then," he says, settling into his chair. "Let's hear what the Guild has to say."
The Guild messenger retrieves a small knife from his belt. With practiced precision, he heats the blade over a candle flame and slides it beneath the seal. The wax parts cleanly, leaving the Guild's emblem intact - a mark of respect few messengers bother with anymore.
Sven unfolds the parchment carefully, his eyes moving across the neat rows of text. His expression gives nothing away, but I notice how his fingers tighten on the paper's edge, how his shoulders tense just slightly. The silence stretches as he reads, broken only by the soft rustling of parchment.
Gondo leans forward, making the chair creak beneath him. "Well?" he rumbles. "What do they say?"
"Give him time to read," Ursa says sharply, though her own hands are clasped tightly in her lap.
Sven unfolds the parchment with care, his eyes moving steadily across the rows of text. His face is an impenetrable mask, but I notice the way his fingers press into the edges and his shoulders shift slightly.
The silence fills the room like stagnant water, thick and suffocating. Only the faint rustling of paper breaks through, dry and brittle.
"Well?" Gondo rumbles, leaning forward. His chair groans beneath his weight. "What do they want now?"
"Let him read," Ursa snaps, not sparing him a glance. Her voice is sharp, but her hands betray her—clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles strain white against her skin.
Then it comes—a sound that seems to birth itself from nothing, so faint at first it might be my own pulse in my ears. But it grows, weaving itself into existence like a spider spinning its web. A low hum that makes the very marrow in my bones resonate in sympathy. The melody feels ancient, pulled from some vast, dark place.
"What is that?" I whisper, and the words feel wrong in my mouth, as if they don't belong in the same world as that otherworldly song.
Gondo rises with a grunt that seems torn from his chest as he moves to the window. His body goes rigid, muscles bunching beneath his shirt like ropes pulled taut. "Silent Ones," he says, voice thick with dread. "Moving through the lower street."
Ursa joins him. The tension radiates from her in waves as she peers out, her fingers trailing against the windowsill like pale spiders. "They're just passing through," she says softly, but there's no comfort in her tone. Her shoulders remain stiff, as if braced against some invisible tide. "They keep to their own path these days."
The humming deepens until it feels like a second heartbeat beneath my skin, steady and inexorable. But Sven doesn't look up from his parchment. His stillness feels like defiance now, a refusal to acknowledge the way reality bends around that ethereal song.
"Sven," Ursa's voice carries an edge sharp enough to cut flesh. "You should see this."
"Let them pass," he replies without raising his eyes, his words falling like frost. "We have more pressing concerns."
"More pressing?" Gondo turns, his face darkening like a storm-bruised sky. "The villagers gather like moths to flame. If things turn ugly—"
"The Guild," Sven cuts through his words like a blade through silk. His eyes finally rise, cold and hard as winter stones. "They're coming here. Within the week."
"What?" Ursa spins from the window so violently she stumbles, her hand catching the table's edge with a sharp crack. "The Guild? Why would they—how could they—" Her fingers fly to her throat as if to catch her rushing words. "Sven, you must have misread. Let me see that letter."
"No." Gondo's voice rises to a near-shout. "No, they can't. Not now. Not with everything that's— Tell me you misread it, Sven. Tell me this is one of your jokes."
But Sven just watches them with those steady gray eyes, and I see the moment understanding breaks across their faces like ice cracking on a winter pond.
Ursa's laugh comes out wrong—a sound like shattering glass. "Oh. Oh, of course they are." She clamps her hands over her mouth, but the laughter keeps spilling through her fingers. "How could they not? We've been fools!"
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"Three incidents in a month," Gondo groans, dragging his hands down his face. "Why didn’t we just send them an invitation? 'Come see the mess we’ve made!'"
"A delegation?" Ursa’s voice careens between hysteria and bitter acceptance, her hands fluttering like trapped birds. "No, wait, let me guess—they're coming 'to assess the situation,' aren't they?"
Sven folds the parchment with precise, measured movements, each crease sharp and final. "They found our last report insufficient."
"Insufficient!" Ursa's laugh has a razor's edge now. She throws her arms wide, nearly knocking over a candlestick. "Of course they did! Why trust us when you can send an entire delegation to dig through our lives like carrion crows?"
"Wonderful timing," Gondo mutters, his laughter curdling into something darker. His eyes drift to the window where the Silent Ones continue their ethereal procession. "I don't suppose they specified exactly when they'll honor us with their presence? Perhaps they'd like to coordinate with the next catastrophe."
"The Silent Ones won't linger," Sven replies, tucking the letter into his robes as if hiding evidence of a crime. "They pass through like shadows at sunset. The Guild, however..." Something flickers behind his mask of calm—a crack in the stone. "They'll be our guests, and that requires our complete attention."
"Guests!" Ursa’s laugh skitters along the edge of madness. "Oh yes, let's use that word. So much more polite than 'inquisitors' or 'executioners,' isn't it?"
Sven rises. "Make whatever arrangements you deem necessary for the Silent Ones. I’ll be in my study, preparing for our... inevitable visitors." Without another word, he strides from the room like a man walking to his own execution.
I watch Ursa and Gondo's manic energy drain away, leaving them looking hollow and ancient. The terror that gripped them transforms into something colder: the bone-deep certainty that they should have seen this coming, should have prepared for this blade at their throats.
Gondo slumps against the windowsill, his knuckles bloodless against the wood. Ursa stares at the door Sven vanished through, as if willing him to return with different news, her face drawn tight as a death mask.
The Hum continues. Their song vibrates in my chest, not quite painful but unsettling, like fingers pressing against my ribs from the inside. I catch glimpses of them through the window—their gray robes rippling, faces half-hidden beneath deep cowls. Their heads tilt skyward, as if listening to music from beyond the stars. The purple crystals atop their wooden staffs pulse with their song like heartbeats answering The Donor's wounded cry, and delicate silver script winds around the handles, ancient words that seem to shift when I look directly at them.
"We should go," Ursa says quietly, her hand finding my shoulder. "Whatever comes next, we need to be ready."
I want to ask Ursa what the Guild's arrival means, why their letter made Sven retreat to his study like a man fleeing his own shadow. But the questions stick in my throat as I watch the monks pass below.
This is only the third time I've seen them, and still their presence makes my skin prickle with a strange mix of fear and fascination. Now I find myself drawn to their strange grace. These wandering monks who chose a different path from the Church's brutal doctrine. Where Divine Retribution demands suffering as payment, the Church of Sacred Understanding believes in freely sharing the burden of pain. They maintain sanctuaries for the sick, preserve forbidden knowledge in hidden libraries, and carry their quiet truth through a world that would rather forget it exists.
But today their presence feels different - like a warning written in a language I'm only beginning to understand. The Guild's arrival feels like a trap we should have anticipated. We were so focused on supernatural threats that we forgot the mundane ones could be just as dangerous.
Ursa's fingers tighten on my shoulder. "Come," she says, guiding me away from the window. "We have preparations to make."
As we descend the stairs, the Silent Ones' song follows us, seeping through walls and under doors like water finding its level.
Outside, the morning light filters through a sky that seems to press down on our village like a held breath. The Silent Ones move through the streets in their steady progression, steps measured but natural. their white robes undisturbed by the mud and grime of the street. The chant follows them, rising and falling in strange rhythms. It’s not a song meant for human ears—it feels older, primal, something pulled from the marrow of the earth.
People gather at the edges of the square, some drawn by curiosity, others by fear.. Others stand stiffly, arms crossed, their faces twisted in suspicion. No one speaks at first. No one dares. The normal sounds of morning fade beneath the weight of that ancient melody
The monks continue their way through our village, unhurried but purposeful. No ceremony marks their passing, no grand gestures or dramatic flourishes - just the quiet dignity of those who have chosen a different path.
“They shouldn’t be here,” someone mutters, the voice low but sharp enough to cut through the hum. It’s the butcher, his thick arms folded across his chest, his face flushed with barely hidden fear. “The Church warned us about their kind.”
The monks don’t respond. They keep their eyes ahead, their chant unbroken, as if the butcher’s words are no more than the wind brushing past their hoods. Their silence only seems to enrage him further.
“Heretics!” he shouts, stepping forward, his boots splashing into the mud. “You don’t belong here!”
The chant continues, an unyielding wave of sound that swallows his anger whole. It’s as if the monks don’t even see him, don’t see any of us, their focus fixed on something far beyond this place.
High Executor Thane steps forward, his prayer staff raised high. The markings catch the light, making the scars seem to writhe.
"These pretenders bring lies to our door," his voice cracks across the square like breaking glass. "Their silence is not peace - it is defiance against divine law. The Donor's pain demands acknowledgment, yet they refuse to suffer!"
The monks continue their procession, their chant unchanging.
Thane's face twists with fury. "Through punishment comes understanding," he intones, lifting a stone from the ground. "Through understanding, acceptance."
The stone flies through the air, striking a monk's shoulder with a sound that makes my stomach lurch. The monk staggers, but two others steady him with movements so gentle it makes my chest ache. They brush the mud from his robe as if it's a ceremony, breaking their haunting chant.
"See how they mock the Donor's lessons!" Thane's voice rises sharper. "Even now they reject divine punishment!"
More stones follow. The crowd's fear spills into violence, their shouts echoing off the buildings. "Heretics!" "Take your corruption elsewhere!"
"Why are they hurting them?" I whisper to Ursa, feeling small and cold despite the morning warmth. "Why don't they fight back? Why don't they stop it?" My voice catches as another stone finds its mark. "The monks aren't doing anything wrong! They're just walking and those crystals are so pretty and-" I have to stop because my throat feels too tight. Another monk stumbles, and the gentle way his brothers help him up makes my eyes burn with tears.
"Because that's not their way," Ursa says, and something in her voice makes me look up sharply. For just a moment, her usual composure cracks - not enough for others to notice, but I catch it in the way her hands tighten on her shawl, in how her eyes follow the monks with an intensity that feels almost like recognition.
She seems to sense my scrutiny and her face smooths back into its familiar calm. But there's still something in her voice, an undercurrent I can't quite name, as she adds, "They believe in bearing witness. In standing firm without raising a hand, no matter the cost."
The way she says it - like she's reciting words learned long ago rather than just observing - makes me wonder. But before I can find the right question to ask, her hand finds mine in warning, and I remember where we are. Who might be watching.
A cold wind gusts through the square, carrying the bitter scent of Temple incense. But underneath it, I catch something else - a fragrance I've smelled before in Ursa's workshop, when she works with her oldest herbs and whispers healing songs she claims to have forgotten.
The monks continue their slow procession through the square. Once in a while, one of their crystals catches the light just so, like stars trying to shine through storm clouds. But that's all - no magic, no miracles. Just people choosing not to fight back when others hurt them.
I lower my head, unable to watch anymore. My hands clench into fists at my sides as I fight back tears. Ursa's fingers find mine, offering a gentle squeeze that feels like understanding. It's not fair. I know what it's like when people don't understand, when they're scared of what's different. Every whisper I hear, every strange thing I see - it makes them look at me differently too. Just like they're looking at the monks now, with fear turning to cruelty.
The Silent Ones continue their measured pace until they reach the village boundary. Their white robes catch the morning light one last time before they disappear into the mist, leaving behind only questions and the weight of what we've done.
Sven's voice cuts through the square. "Let this be a reminder," he declares from the town hall steps, his authority heavy in every word. "They come to sow doubt. To undermine everything we stand for. Do not mistake their silence for innocence."
The villagers murmur agreement, but their voices waver. I see Mrs. Weber touch her marking scars, her face troubled. Old Henrik stares after the monks like he's trying to memorize their quiet dignity. Even Thane's condemnation seems to ring hollow now, his gaze lingering too long on the road where they vanished.
A heavy silence settles over the square, thick with something that feels like shame. Neighbors avoid each other's eyes, and hands that held stones now hang empty and uncertain. The butcher wipes his palms against his apron as if trying to clean away more than just dust. Even the children who had joined in the shouting now huddle close to their parents, suddenly unsure of their role in what just happened.
"It's not right," I whisper, my head still bowed, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. I know how it feels - to be different, to be feared. To have people turn against you just because they don't understand. "They were just walking. Just being themselves. Why isn't that allowed?"
"Why does everyone have to hate what they don't understand?" The words come out small and broken. When Ursa can't answer, I pull my hand from hers, rejecting the comfort she offers. Some questions hurt too much to bear gentle touches and silent understanding.
"Not now, little one," she murmurs, and I hear real fear beneath her words. "This isn't the time for such questions."
But as I wipe my eyes, I can't help thinking - if not now, when? When will it be time to ask why we hurt people just because they're different? When will it be time to stop being afraid?
"Enough! What are you all still doing here?" Thane's voice slices through the uncertain silence, sharp with barely contained fury. His eyes sweep across the gathered villagers, heavy with judgment. "Did you come to gawk? To question divine will?" Each word falls like a stone, making people flinch and look away. "Or perhaps some of you sympathize with these heretics?"
The crowd disperses quickly after that, shoulders hunched, faces turned down - each person carrying their own private weight of doubt or shame or something harder to name.
I open my mouth to protest, but strong arms suddenly lift me from behind. "Time to go home, little rebel," Dad says softly, and despite everything, I feel safe in his familiar embrace. His heart beats steady against my cheek as he carries me away from the square, my legs dangling like when I was smaller.
Through the gap between his arm and chest, I catch glimpses of the scene we're leaving behind - Ursa's figure growing distant as she nods goodbye, the Guild messenger already a dark shape on the horizon, headed back to whatever secrets brought him here. The last thing I see before we turn the corner is Elder Sven, still standing on those worn steps
At home, Mom makes hot tea with honey - her cure for everything. Maya sits close beside me at the kitchen table, her small hand finding mine under the worn wooden surface. The familiar scents of home - dried herbs hanging from the rafters, fresh bread cooling on the counter - wrap around us like a blanket.
Later, when the house grows quiet and shadows stretch long across our bedroom floor, Maya crawls into my bed without asking. Her weight settles beside me, warm and real, Mr. Whiskers clutched to her chest. We lie there in silence for a long time, listening to the house creak and settle.
"Julie?" Maya's voice is barely a whisper. "Do you ever feel... different? Like everyone else knows something you don't?"
I turn my head to look at her, surprised by the question. Mr. Whiskers dangles forgotten from her hand as she stares up at the ceiling.
"Sometimes," I say finally, choosing my words carefully. "Like today... everyone seemed so sure about what was right. About throwing stones and being cruel. But I couldn't understand it." I pause, feeling the weight of what I'm about to confess. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm not strong enough to do what needs to be done."
Maya is quiet for so long I think she might have fallen asleep. Then she says, with that strange wisdom she sometimes shows, "Or maybe being strong isn't about throwing stones at all."
The words sink into me slowly, like rain into dry earth. Before I can respond, Maya starts humming softly - that haunting melody that had followed the Silent Ones through our streets.
"Maya!" I sit up sharply, suddenly afraid. "You can't do that! It's-"
She stops, turning to look at me with disappointment that cuts deeper than any anger could. "It's just a song, Julie," she says quietly. "And it's beautiful. Like stars singing." She rolls away from me, curling around Mr. Whiskers. "You're really stupid sometimes," she mutters, but the words carry more sadness than spite.
I lie back down, staring into the darkness. The melody lingers in my mind, like so many things in our world. Maybe Maya's right - maybe I am stupid. But as sleep finally comes, I wonder if being stupid is better than being the kind of person who throws stones at gentle things.