Sawyer began every morning the same way.
He ran.
Not to build speed—he had enough of that—but to maintain stamina. The settlement was still waking as he set into a steady jog, boots striking stone in a muted rhythm. Not fast. Not slow. Sustainable. His breath fell into an easy cadence, controlled to avoid pulling too hard on his injured arm.
The streets curved more than they should have.
That had been his first lesson here.
The settlement hadn't grown by planning, but by accumulation—paths laid where people walked often enough to insist they remain. Stonework varied in age and quality. New mortar pressed up against blocks worn smooth by centuries of feet. Buildings leaned into one another like old conspirators.
And beneath it all—
The Song.
It thrummed through the streets like a second atmosphere. Not sound, not light. Pressure. Direction. It pushed people subtly—guiding traffic, smoothing movement, reducing friction. Even the animals leaned into it without knowing why.
Sawyer did not.
He adjusted naturally, compensating where others were carried. That, too, had become a lesson.
He passed an open market just coming to life. A woman arranging produce hummed unconsciously, her hands moving faster when her voice did. A pair of guards shifted their weight in sync as they talked, armor chiming softly as if sharing a pulse.
Efficiency through resonance.
Predictable. Sustained.
Sawyer finished his circuit as the sun cleared the rooftops, lungs warm, stride steady. He slowed only once the lodging house came into view—an unassuming structure wedged between the tavern and a shuttered storefront. No markings. No excess traffic. He had chosen it for that reason.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old wood and boiled grain. Sawyer climbed the stairs without hurry, boots quiet on worn steps. His room was spare: bed, table, chair. Nothing that invited comfort. Everything where he left it.
He set his coat aside and rolled his shoulders once.
Then he began.
No blade at first.
Sawyer planted his feet on bare floorboards and raised his hands, fingers loose, elbows relaxed. The opening stance was simple—deceptively so. Weight centered. Knees unlocked. Spine aligned not rigidly, but honestly.
He moved.
Slowly at first. A sequence of transitions rather than strikes.
Step.
Turn.
Shift.
Each motion ended cleanly, no momentum wasted. His dominant arm lagged a fraction behind the rest of his body, the injury asserting itself just enough to be acknowledged.
He adjusted.
Force bled away from the arm and into his hips. The shoulder rotated less. The wrist stayed neutral. Pain registered—not sharp, not alarming. Present.
He repeated the form, this time with intent layered beneath restraint. The movements sharpened, edges defined by control rather than speed. In a real fight, this would look unimpressive.
That was the point.
Flash invited correction.
Subtlety invited mistakes.
Sawyer exhaled through his nose as he completed the sequence and reset. Sweat traced a thin line down his spine. His breathing remained even, timed to motion rather than effort.
This world rewarded rhythm.
He did not give it one.
The Song pressed faintly at the edges of the room, filtering through stone and timber like an unasked question. It found no purchase. Sawyer moved through the space without echo, without reinforcement.
Again.
The form continued, modified now—shorter extensions, tighter recoveries. He practiced drawing power without commitment, letting his body learn how little was truly required. How much excess most people carried.
By the fifth repetition, the arm began to complain.
He stopped.
Not because of the pain—but because he had reached the limit where adaptation would turn into compensation. Sawyer flexed his fingers, rolled his wrist once, slow and deliberate. The bandage beneath his sleeve held firm.
He stood still for a moment, letting his heartbeat settle, listening to the lodge wake around him. Floorboards creaked somewhere below. A door opened. Voices murmured, carried and softened by distance.
Life continued.
Sawyer lowered his hands.
The settlement had taught him much already—about resonance, about expectation, about how deeply people trusted the Song to carry them where they needed to go.
He trusted none of it.
Sawyer reached for his coat and was halfway through pulling it on when the floorboard outside his door creaked.
He stopped.
Not froze—just paused, hands still, attention shifting outward.
Agnes' steps were easy to recognize. Purposeful. Unguarded. She didn't try to hide her presence, which meant she wasn't expecting to be hidden from. Sawyer finished settling the coat on his shoulders and turned just as she knocked.
"Morning," she said, opening the door without waiting for an answer. Her eyes swept the room in an inquisitive glance—then lingered on his arm. "You've been up awhile."
"Yes."
She exhaled. "Figures."
Her gaze dipped briefly to the bandage hidden beneath his sleeve. "You shouldn't be pushing that."
"I wasn't," Sawyer replied.
Agnes gave him a look. "Yeah, sure."
Before he could answer, Sawyer's eyes shifted—not to her, but past her. To the open stairwell beyond. To the quiet space just out of direct sight.
"You can stop listening now," he said evenly. "Nothing interesting happened."
Agnes stiffened. "Listening?"
A soft sound followed—almost a laugh.
Kristaphs stepped into view from the stairwell, hands loosely clasped behind his back, expression bright with mild disappointment. "Ah. Unfortunate."
Agnes spun. "Kristaphs?! How long have you been there?"
"Not long enough, apparently," he said pleasantly.
Agnes' eyes narrowed. "You were eavesdropping."
"I prefer observing," Kristaphs replied. "You really only came near the end."
Sawyer met his gaze without hostility. "You adjusted your breathing when I reached my third set," he said. "Try to hide your boredom."
Kristaphs' smile widened. "And here I thought I was subtle."
Agnes looked between them, irritation blooming. "I didn't notice you at all."
"You weren't meant to," Kristaphs said gently.
Sawyer tilted his head a fraction. "You followed during the run as well. Fell back near the market. Picked up again by the eastern alley."
Kristaphs raised his brows. "Efficient observation."
"Habit."
Agnes crossed her arms. "Alright, ignore me and disappear into your own little world, why don't you."
Sawyer regarded her calmly. "You're still here."
"That's because someone has to be," she shot back. "Apparently I'm the only one in this group who doesn't hear ghosts on stairwells."
Kristaphs chuckled. "Professional ghosts."
Agnes gave him a flat look. "You call that professional? Lurking outside doors?"
"I prefer proactive," Kristaphs said. "Guild work rarely rewards people who wait to be informed."
Sawyer adjusted his coat, careful of his arm. "And yet you waited until after my routine."
Kristaphs shrugged lightly. "I was curious whether the injury would change it."
Agnes' eyes snapped back to Sawyer. "It should."
"It didn't."
"That's the problem," she muttered.
Kristaphs clasped his hands behind his back, studying Sawyer with open interest. "Most people compensate loudly. They announce weakness without realizing it."
Sawyer met his gaze. "Most people rely on reinforcement."
A beat passed.
Agnes exhaled sharply. "You two talk like the rest of us aren't even here."
Kristaphs smiled at her. "On the contrary. You're the anchor. Without you, this would drift into abstraction."
She blinked. "Was that supposed to be flattering?"
"Marginally."
Agnes shook her head, then sobered. "Enough. This isn't why I came."
Kristaphs quipped, "So you weren't here to ogle?"
Her glare ended that line of inquiry.
Sawyer's attention remained steady. "Go on."
She hesitated, then said, "The guildmaster wants to meet you. In person."
Silence settled—not tense, but contained.
Kristaphs nodded. "Before noon. He was quite specific."
Sawyer didn't react immediately. "And the reason?"
Kristaphs' expression sharpened. "Because of the Concierge."
Agnes' jaw tightened. "No one would believe the five of us took it down."
"An Apex appearing this close would have drawn attention regardless," Kristaphs continued. "One being killed before disaster? That invites speculation; the guild prefers to answer before praise."
Sawyer considered that. "So this is containment."
"Clarification," Kristaphs corrected. "From their perspective."
Agnes looked at Sawyer steadily. "They're going to ask questions."
"Yes."
"Questions you won't be able to dodge."
Sawyer nodded once. "I'm aware."
Kristaphs smiled faintly. "Good. Then this meeting may yet remain civil."
Outside, the lodge creaked as morning fully settled in.
And somewhere beyond it, the guild hall waited—stone, authority, and a curiosity sharpened by bottled resentment.