Morning came like a bruise across the sky, the sun rising dim and veiled through drifting ash. The settlement stirred, slow and heavy. Smoke curled from cooking fires, voices murmured, and for a moment the place almost looked alive. But the weight beneath it all—the waiting, the tension, the whispers—was undeniable.
Silas had not slept. His shards circled lazily in the gray light, orbiting him like moons bound to a dying planet. The night had been filled with whispers, each one sharper than the last. Sometimes they sounded like the Sleeper, ancient and vast. Other times they sounded like the voices of men—the soldiers he had slain, the innocents caught in the fire. A chorus of judgment, but directed at him.
Serina woke late, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She caught sight of him standing apart, his gaze fixed downward at the cracked ground. Her lips parted as though to speak, but she didn't. She knew better than to ask him what he had heard.
By midday, the old man summoned them again. The hall was colder now, lanterns dim, shadows leaning long across the walls. Around him stood other survivors—men and women with hard faces, calloused hands, and eyes sharpened by suspicion.
"You said you would walk among us," the old man said without preamble. His voice was steady, but the lines in his face were drawn tight. "You have seen what we are. Now you should understand why we fear you."
Serina's brows knit together. "Fear him?" she echoed.
A younger man to the right stepped forward. His hair was cropped close, his jaw scarred, his hands gripping a crude spear with white knuckles. "Every time he moves, those shards hum. Every time he breathes, the air feels wrong. He's not like us. He's not like anyone." His eyes narrowed at Silas. "If the Conclave comes, it will be for him. And when that happens, do you think they'll spare the rest of us?"
A murmur rippled through the group. Some nodded, others shifted uneasily, but no one spoke against him.
Silas said nothing. His gaze swept across the faces turned toward him—accusing, fearful, half-hidden behind desperation. He saw it all and felt nothing.
Serina stepped forward. "You think driving him out will save you? The Conclave doesn't need excuses to burn settlements. They'll do it because you exist outside their leash. Silas is the only reason you might survive their fire when they do come."
The younger man spat on the floor. "Or the reason they burn us faster."
Silas' shards flared faintly, a ripple of light glancing across the stone. Several of the survivors recoiled, clutching weapons, eyes wide.
"Enough." The old man's voice cut across the hall like a blade. His hands trembled against his staff, but his gaze remained steady. "He stays, for now. But so do our eyes upon him. If he brings ruin, it will not go unanswered."
The meeting ended on a knife's edge. The people dispersed, but their glances lingered—always toward Silas, never away.
That evening, Silas walked the edges of the settlement again. The walls were little more than scavenged stone stacked high, riddled with cracks. Men and women stood guard with dull swords and splintering bows, their eyes flicking toward the dark horizon where Conclave ships sometimes flickered as glints of steel.
Serina joined him, her cloak drawn close against the wind. She glanced at the people on the walls before speaking low. "They're afraid of you. Not just because of what you are. Because they know you don't fear them."
Silas didn't answer at first. His gaze was fixed outward, but his thoughts lingered downward, toward the endless whisper below. Finally, he said, "Fear is what makes them cling to life. But it will not save them when the fire falls."
"Maybe not," she admitted. "But if you want them to follow you when that time comes, you can't be the ghost they whisper about. You have to be…" She hesitated, searching for the word. "…something more."
He turned to her. "And what would you call that?"
Her lips curved faintly, though there was no humor in her eyes. "Hope."
He almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he turned away, his shards humming louder at the word, as if mocking it.
That night, the Sleeper's whispers came stronger than ever. Silas lay still, eyes open in the dark, listening to the breathing of the settlement around him. The whispers slid beneath it like a second heartbeat.
*Weak. Fragile.