Date: March 26, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Dur was returning to the artisans' quarter when twilight had finally swallowed the streets of Ligra, turning them into a labyrinth of deep shadows and rare patches of light from oil lanterns. His body ached with fatigue—the forest treks with Horn's patrol had squeezed the last strength from him, but in his pocket, two silver coins pleasantly weighed heavy, and in his heart burned a strange, hitherto unfamiliar feeling. He was no longer a "wild boy" or a "fugitive from an orphanage." Today, he had become a part of Ligra. He had proven his usefulness to the city that yesterday had seemed like a mere stone cage.
The climb up the rickety external staircase to the clockmaker's attic was quiet—his tracker instincts worked even in complete exhaustion. Dur pushed open the hatch and tumbled into the room.
Maël sat at the table, lit only by a single guttering candle. An old diagram lay before him, but he wasn't looking at it. As soon as Dur's head appeared in the opening, Maël instantly jumped up, and Dur saw his hand reflexively twitch towards a small dagger hidden under the tabletop. Seeing his friend, Maël exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders gave way to feigned relaxation.
"You're late, forest man," he said, putting the dagger away and pulling over a second stool. "I was starting to think Horn had decided to throw you to the wolves for illegal hunting in the reserve."
Dur silently walked to the table and laid down two heavy silver coins. In the dim candlelight, they gleamed with a cold, confident shine. On each was stamped the profile of Agrim Ma Rat and the symbol of the crossed sickle and hammer.
Maël froze. His eyes widened; he slowly reached out and touched the metal with his fingertips. "Two silver…" he whispered. "Dur, do you know what this means? With this much money, we could live here for a month without checking empty pots. What did you do? Track down a forest spirit itself?"
"I tracked down people who were pretending to be sheep," Dur sat down, leaning heavily on the table with his elbows. "Horn is pleased. He gave me a token. Now I'm a 'freelance tracker.' I can carry a bow and go beyond the walls without unnecessary questions."
The joy on Maël's face suddenly dimmed, replaced by a strange, anxious expression. He took one coin and began thoughtfully twirling it between his fingers, displaying a dexterity not taught in markets. "A token… A contract… Dur, do you realize you're in the spotlight now? Horn is an honest soldier, as far as possible in Ligra. But he's part of the machine. Your name is now on the lists. The guards at the gates have memorized your face. To them, you're no longer random dust, but a useful tool. And in this city… tools have a habit of breaking or changing hands."
Dur frowned. Fatigue made it hard to grasp all the nuances of Maël's urban paranoia. "Is that bad? We have money. We have the protection of the law. We're not hiding in corners from every patrol anymore."
"We're hiding from other things," Maël abruptly stood and began pacing the tiny room. "While you were just a wanderer, you were uninteresting. Now you're 'that guy who found the poachers.' They'll start watching you. Your habits, your connections… with me."
Maël stopped at the window, peering into the darkness of the yard. Dur watched his tense back for a long time. The question he'd been suppressing for the last three days finally escaped his lips.
"Maël, why do you know Ligra so well?" Dur asked quietly, but in the silence of the attic, his voice carried weight. "You know the taxes, you know the prices, you know how the guards think. You talk like someone who grew up not in a ditch, but in the halls where these laws are written. And you're not afraid of the guard; you're afraid of being recognized."
A heavy, ringing silence filled the room. Only the ticking of the old clockmaker's mechanisms downstairs could be heard. Maël didn't turn. His fingers, resting on the windowsill, had gone white with tension.
"I grew up in the shadow of big houses, Dur," he finally answered, his voice devoid of its usual sarcasm. "In Ligra, the shadow is the best place to learn. You see everything while remaining unnoticed. I learned to read people before I learned letters. I saw how fates crumbled because of one mistake in a tax record. I saw how the Agrim system grinds down those who think they're special."
He turned. His face was pale in the candlelight. "My secret is my only shield. If I tell it to you, that shield becomes half as strong. Not because I don't trust you. But because now you'll be carrying this burden too. Are you sure you want that? Here, in Ligra, knowledge isn't just power—it's also an excellent reason to be found in a ditch with your throat cut."
Dur looked into his friend's eyes. He remembered Torm. The old hunter always said: "If you don't trust your partner, don't go bear hunting with him." He remembered how Maël had risked himself at the market, leading the pursuit away from him.
"Everyone has their own scars," Dur said, touching his shoulder where the mark of wolf fangs lay hidden under his clothes. "My scars are from beasts. Yours are from people. I won't push. In the forest, we respect others' dens. But remember: if a bear comes for you, I won't ask why it's angry. I'll just loose an arrow."
Maël slowly exhaled. The tension left his body, and he again resembled that clever city lad Dur had met at the market. He walked to the table and slid the silver back to Dur.
"Keep one for yourself. I'll change the second for coppers and alums tomorrow. We need to buy proper food, change our clothes for something less conspicuous, and…" he hesitated. "And you need to buy a proper sharpening stone for your knife. Yours is completely worn down."
They sat in silence, sharing the remains of stale bread between them. This was the first serious test of their friendship. Dur felt the unspoken; he sensed with his skin that Maël was not who he pretended to be. His manners, his knowledge, his fear of "returning to the estate"—all pointed to something far larger than mere reluctance to become a craftsman. But Dur decided to wait. In the world of stone, as in the world of the forest, haste killed.
"Ligra is like a river," Dur suddenly said, looking at the candle flame. "On the surface, it seems calm and ordered. But at the bottom—cold currents and sharp rocks. Today I felt that bottom."
Maël smiled bitterly. "Welcome to the depths, forest man. Just remember to breathe."
That night, Dur slept without dreams of water. He dreamed of the city—a huge, gray beast slowly opening its eyes, watching him with the interest of a predator that had found new, unusual prey. And beside him, in the shadows, sat Maël, clutching a silver coin that in his fingers seemed either a key or shackles. Trust was established, but its price in this city was higher than any two silver pieces.