Khaivor
Festival preparation fills the square long before the sun begins to sink toward the lake.
Roseth moves through the chaos as though the entire square breathes in rhythm with her footsteps.
I attempt to focus on the work. My success lasts only moments at a time.
Forge smoke clings faintly to her clothes, softened by lake air and the faint sweetness of soap. The scent reaches me whenever she passes nearby, easing the constant pressure inside my skull before I consciously recognize the change.
"You promised to help tune the handbells," she says, placing a tray beside me.
"I remember." I heave.
"You looked like you needed something practical to do today."
Her smile appears quickly, bright enough to chase away the lingering unease from yesterday's conversation at the forge.
She hums while she works.
The sound slips into the space between each bell tone and settles there comfortably. My breathing matches the rhythm before I notice the change.
"You never stop humming," I say.
"I stop when I sleep." she replies.
"That seems unlikely."
Her laugh arrives softly, warm enough to quiet the sharpest edges of the square's growing noise.
We continue working in companionable quiet until curiosity presses forward again.
"You asked about Kantor last night," she says without looking up.
"You never answered."
I adjust the rim of the bell in my hand, letting the faint vibration steady my thoughts.
"What do you know about dark elf nobility?" I ask.
"Only stories," she says. "None of them are kind."
I inhale sharply"They rarely are."
She sets a bell down gently. "Were you raised there?"
"Yes."
"Was it terrible?" She asks.
The question carries no accusation, only honest curiosity. That alone makes the answer harder.
"It was structured," I say, "Children with magic were trained early. Precision mattered more than comfort."
"What kind of training?"
"Control. Endurance. Obedience." I answer with a brief pause.
Her hammer pauses midair. "That sounds like soldier training," she observes, not unkindly.
"In many ways, it was."
"Resonance magic," she mutters, half to herself.
"Yes." I nod
"What did they use it for?"
"At first, demonstrations. Ceremonies meant to impress visitors." The words come out even, practiced, stripped of everything that once lived inside them.
"That does not sound terrible."
"It did not remain that way," I say, and leave the rest where it belongs — in the silence after.
"Sound influences emotion," I continue. "A single tone can calm a crowd. Another can agitate it. Layer enough frequencies together and people begin to feel what you want them to feel."
Understanding forms slowly in her expression.
"You were used to control people," she figures.
"Yes."
"How old were you?" The question comes quietly, like she already suspects the answer and is bracing for it.
"Younger than you would like," I answer calmly.
The hammer in her hand lowers.
"I am sorry," she says.
I blink as something in my ribs shifts without consent. "You are not afraid?"
She looks at me then. "Should I be?"
"I told you my magic was used to harm people," I continue, watching her face for the thing I expect — the small withdrawal, the recalculation behind the eyes but it does not come.
"You told me you were trained to use it," she replies. "You didn't tell me you chose it."
A bell on the table before us rings faintly, responding to nothing. We both look at it. The vibration dies slowly, leaving silence that feels heavier than before.
"There was a noble family," I say, the words arriving before I can reconsider them. "The Chivdouyu caste. They valued power over sentiment. Control over compassion. When they realized what I could do with resonance, they saw opportunity."
"What kind of opportunity?"
"The kind that required cooperation from people who did not wish to cooperate."
Her hands still completely. "Interrogation."
"Yeah,” I swallow.
Roseth sets the hammer down carefully.
"How long?" she asks as I look out the view.
"Years." I respond.
She takes her time before inquiring further, "When did you stop?"
"When I realized what I had become."
She absorbs this quietly, her amber eyes holding mine without flinching.
"And … what… did you become?" she asks.
I look down at my gloved hands. "A weapon."
"But you did have a choice." Her voice shows how curious she was
"Eventually, yes,” I affirm. “I fled Kantor. Left everything behind except the bells I had collected."
"The bells you bought from me. How long ago was this?" She asks.
"More than you have been alive."
She picks up the hammer again. Turns it over in her hands, examining the worn handle as though it holds answers.
"You have been wandering since then. Searching for what?" Her question makes me look back on my life's journey.
"Silence. Peace. Something quieter than the voices that follow me."
"The voices?”
I gesture vaguely toward my head. "Resonance does not stop simply because I wish it to. Every sound carries frequency. Every frequency carries information. Most days, the world screams at me constantly."
"But the bells help."
"Yours do,” I answer. “Only yours."
She meets my eyes then, something unreadable moving through her expression.
"Why mine specifically?" Her question keeps coming relentlessly.
"No idea," I admit. "Your craftsmanship creates tones unlike anything else in Protheka. They harmonize with magic itself rather than simply producing sound. When I hear them, the chaos quiets. I can hear myself think.
The admission hangs between us.
"You never spoke to me before this week," she relays.
"I did not trust myself to speak because I knew if I started, I would not want to stop."
The words escape before I can contain them. They land between us with more honesty than I intended, raw and unguarded.
Before she can respond, raised voices cut across the square.
A woman who shares Roseth's dark curls storms toward a towering dwarf whose expression suggests long familiarity with her temper.
"You moved the ale casks again," she snaps.
"They blocked the processional route," the dwarf replies.
"They were not blocking anything." They argue on.
"They absolutely were, Vi."
Roseth sighs quietly. "That is Sylvi," she murmurs to me. "My cousin. She coordinates the festival. The dwarf is Brohm. Former partner. Current professional disaster."
"That explains the volume."I whisper back.
"It explains approximately half of it." She breathes.
Sylvi spots Roseth and immediately changes direction, dragging Brohm with her through sheer force of personality.
"You," she says, pointing at Roseth. "Tell him the ceremonial platform takes priority over brewery storage."
Brohm folds his arms across his chest. We step between them together.
The argument unfolds quickly, full of gestures and old grievances.
“Vi, you know you can work it out?”
“Never!” Her cousin grunts. “Not possible,”
“It is possible,” I input, quietly supporting her reasoning with observations about space allocation and foot traffic patterns.
“See, even the elf knows it,” Brohm erupts, throwing his thick hands in the air.
Neither of them appears particularly interested in logic, but gradual compromise emerges through sheer exhaustion.
Sylvi eyes me curiously before returning to work. "You are surprisingly useful for someone frightening," she says over her shoulder.
"Thank you?"
"That was not necessarily a compliment." She replies.
"You did well," Roseth says once the square settles again.
"I have negotiated louder crowds."
She laughs, the sound warm enough to linger in the space between us.
"I imagine you have," she says. "Though probably under significantly worse circumstances."
We return to the bells as lanterns begin to glow overhead.
At some point, Roseth steps closer to examine the silver rings woven into my braids.
"These keep slipping," she murmurs.
Before I can react, her fingers brush the braid near my temple as she adjusts the clasp holding the rings in place.
The world narrows instantly. Every distant sound softens beneath the awareness of her touch.
Her fingers work carefully, gently adjusting the clasp without pulling.
She finishes adjusting the clasp and steps back, entirely unaware of the chaos she leaves behind.
"That should hold better," she says.
I nod, grateful she does not ask why speaking suddenly feels impossible.
Later, when lantern light ripples across the lake and the square grows quiet, we walk back toward the forge together.
"Thank you," Roseth says quietly, "for telling me the truth today."
"You deserved to know."
"It does not change how I see you." She confesses.
I glance at her. "It should."
We stop outside the forge door. She turns to face me fully, amber eyes searching mine in the darkness.
"You are not what they made you," she says. "You are what you chose to become after."
I want to reach for her, want to close the distance between us and discover if the chaos I feel is mutual. Instead I remain still, gloved hands pressed flat against my sides.
"Goodnight, Roseth," I mutter.
"Goodnight, Khaivor."
She disappears inside the forge. The door closes softly behind her.
I stand in the darkness long after she is gone, listening to the distant sound of bells ringing across the water.
A realization settles quietly into place.
I do not want to leave Bellmere when the festival ends.
The thought arrives gently, yet refuses to leave. It sinks roots into my chest, spreading through my ribs like something living.