Lately, Xin had been doing a little better.
It wasn't a miraculous transformation—simply a gentle alteration in his stride, a more dependable inhalation, a warming in his fatigued face. He was still a presence in the food pantry, still wearing the olive drab of a morning hunter, still smiling when others made excessive demands of him. But something was now taking residence inside of him. The guilt hadn't disappeared, but it was no longer trying to crush him into the ground.
It was perhaps time. It was perhaps habit. It was perhaps just the rhythm of life pulling him onward.
He was in the back room again today, this time helping with the dishes. The water was lukewarm, the soap thin and fading fast, but it was better than nothing. The station was cramped, dimly lit, and humid. Steam curled off the metal trays and stone plates. It was the kind of quiet work that required your hands but not your thoughts.
Nor was he solitary.
There was a girl who worked the same corner, as silent as the water. She was short, younger than him by a few years...probably around fourteen, and had a round, unassuming face that was framed by black hair clinging to her cheeks. She never spoke. Never even looked up, always avoiding his eyes. Her motions were almost hypnotic in their repetition. Wash, rinse, place. Always moving to her right. Always maintaining a rhythm that might as well have been a heartbeat.
She had needed help, and he had given it. It had been a long time ago, a lifetime, really, but she remembered it as if it were yesterday. And not a single word had been spoken during the entire interaction.
He wasn't bothered, not at all. But there was something about her—something odd and hard to interpret—that hung around in his head.
Now, he looked at her and saw her slim figure in the shell of a uniform they had given her. She stood before the sink, sorting through the blind passage of dishes. Pale hands moved deftly and rhythmically, sluicing water and soap, as if she were knitting a set of new realities with each stitch of a dish in this way and that.
He glanced at her now, watched as she dipped a chipped bowl into the rinse water and set it aside without pause. Her hands were pale; her sleeves were soaked. She looked so small in the "uniform" they'd given her, as if she didn't quite belong in this place or anywhere at all.
Through the tiny pane above the sink, all that Xin could see in the world beyond was a uniform grey. Dust storms were kicking up along the far ridges. The sun was trying to make it through the cracked clouds. She looked at it. Or, she thought, I could be watching her. But this felt better—less worrying. Although it was totally illogical, it seemed more accepting to be peering into a distant, sun-dappled version of the world than to be fixated on Xin.
This was what some people probably meant when they talked about "projections." Seeing oneself, a little, in the other.
Even so, it was curiosity that kept pulling at his thoughts.
Again, he turned to her, and this time, he put forth an effort.
"Hi there," he said quietly, making sure not to shock them into a response. "You're a speed demon at this thing.."
No response. No movement. Not even the slightest indication of recognition.
She continued to scrub, her hands moving with the same cold precision as before.
Xin was uncertain.
"I am Xin," he stated after a brief pause. "I have observed you a few times. I just thought I would take a moment to greet you."
No response.
The quietness stretched on until it became uncomfortable. The only noise came from the dishes being served and the passing of water, filling the void between them.
Xin attempted to decipher her as he watched. But she left him nothing to work with—no tension, no discomfort, and not even a hint of irritation. Only that same endless rhythm. Scrub, rinse, place. Scrub, rinse, place.
He sighed and directed his gaze to his own tray of dishes, resolving for the moment to abandon his questioning. A person could be quiet for a number of reasons. Maybe she didn't talk. Maybe she couldn't. Or maybe she just didn't want to.
He plunged his hands once more into the soapy water and set about the task of purifying himself anew.
After a few moments of quiet together, he performed a small action. It was almost something one would expect a child to do.
He motioned with his hand in a greeting.
Only a gentle wave. Nothing overly theatrical. Just a barely perceptible flutter of his fingers toward her.
The young lady halted halfway through her rubbing-a scrub as intimate as marriage, requiring for its not inconsiderable duration a certain shared space, a kind of safe, corporeal geometry, a sweet pocket of time in which two people are not just side by side but together.
At that moment, she turned her head, and for the first time, her eyes were locked with his.
There was something disquieting in the way she gazed at him. Not without warmth. Not with rage. Just… vacantly. Like she was directing her gaze at a partition. Or beyond him with meaningless intent.
No shock. No muddle. No feelings whatsoever.
Then, just as quickly, she turned away and returned to her work.
Xin opened and closed His eyes rapidly.
He didn't know what he had expected—maybe a smile, or a nod. Even a glare would've told him something. But this... this left nothing.
He could not get a read her.
He continued to wash.
Clean, wash, set in place.
The silence came back, but now it felt different...less like evasion, more like a comprehension that they were two individuals in the same space, both attempting to stay alive in their own ways.
It's possible she didn't need words. And it's possible he didn't either.
Today is not the day.
…
It was well past twilight when Xin finished his training with shun. The sky, though dark, still held that strange celestial object—the brown eye—glaring down like a half-lidded watcher. Its presence had unnerved him at first, weeks ago. Now, it had simply become part of the sky, just another thing to accept on this cursed mountain.
His arms ached. The Dharma Wheel pulsed faintly against his side, a strange warmth in its center where he had tried new movements, new flows. He was slowly learning to command it—truly command it. The miasma bent better to his will now, no longer flaring out in raw, defensive bursts, but folding itself around him like a veil. Still, progress was slow.
As he approached the stone encampment they'd taken refuge in, he noticed something that stopped him cold.
The room had been cleaned.
Not just tidied—organized...as if a maid cleaned this. The clutter that usually sprawled across the floor was neatly pushed into containers made from stitched hide. Tools and charms were arranged in purposeful rows. Even the scent in the air had changed: earthy, cold, and calm.
Xin frowned. This wasn't his doing.
At the far end of the chamber, beyond the soft glow of the fire pit, there was a makeshift bed—monster fur layered atop a wide stone slab. Next to it, a jagged boulder used as a chair.
And seated upon that boulder was a figure cloaked in obsidian armor, unmoving, like a statue.
Raven.
The fire crackled once, casting eerie light over the matte-black plates of his armor. His helm was off, resting against the wall, revealing an expression that was unreadable yet unmistakably human.
Xin hesitated before stepping forward.
"How long have you been sitting there?" he asked, voice low.
"Awhile," Raven said.
His tone was cool, distant—but not hostile. It had the weight of someone who had been thinking deeply, and was still doing so.
Raven tilted his head slightly. "How have you been faring?"
Xin shrugged, letting out a breath. "Still breathing. Still tired."
Raven nodded, eyes drifting to the Dharma Wheel.
"You've been training."
"Trying."
A moment passed, heavy with unspoken tension. Then Xin spoke, his voice quiet but edged with old pain. "You know...I still haven't forgiven you for murdering Cedric."
"I know," Raven replied, his tone unreadable.
Xin exhaled slowly. "Then again… I wouldn't be alive if you didn't. So… thank you."
A beat passed. The fire crackled again. Outside, the wind howled faintly along the slope.
"I've been studying the slopes," Raven said suddenly. "Mapping the patterns in the fog. The flying hollows. The fractured paths. There were more near-deaths than I care to count. From the catacombs to the cliffs."
Xin narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"
Raven leaned forward just slightly, shadows pooling around his feet.
"I've been thinking. All those close calls we survived… it wasn't luck."
"What are you talking about?"
"I mean, we should have died. Multiple times," Raven said, his voice quiet but cutting. "But we didn't. Because he was there."
Xin's jaw clenched.
Raven went on. "In the catacombs, it was his fire that lit the path. On the mountains, his warnings kept us from walking into traps. He knew things he shouldn't. He was too calm, too precise."
Xin looked away, something raw sparking in his chest. "Don't bring him up."
"You're angry," Raven said, "because you know I'm right."
"I'm angry," Xin snapped, "because you're not getting to the point._"
A long silence followed.
Then, Raven rose from the boulder.
Even with light in the room, he looked like a phantom—tall, cloaked in darkness, war-born. His obsidian armor barely made a sound as he crossed the room.
Xin didn't move. He held his ground.
Raven stopped in front of him, gaze unreadable.
"What are you implying?" Xin demanded.
A moment of silence.
Then, Raven answered.
"He's alive."
The words dropped like a war-hammer.
Xin's breath caught. He took a step back, face contorting. "No. I saw him fall."
"And yet the wind didn't carry his body," Raven said. "There was no scream, not the horrible sound on a body meeting stone…no corpse"
Xin shook his head, fists trembling. "He jumped. He…He killed himself."
"Or He choose to leave use to leave us."