✧ Chapter Seventeen ✧
Where Silence Speaks
from Have You Someone to Protect?
By ©Amer
The sound of a stone dropping into water broke the hush of late afternoon.
Lhady had tossed it without thinking—
just a smooth, flat one she'd picked up near the bench.
It landed with a quiet plunk, sending small ripples
across the surface of the canal.
The water offered no reflection.
No reply.
She watched the circles widen and fade.
The golden light of the hour stretched long over the cobbled street.
Children's laughter echoed near the old well,
and paper lanterns danced on thin wires
strung between eaves like forgotten prayers.
Caelum had just been whisked away by the elder woman to mingle.
Ever the courteous one,
he dipped his head toward Lhady, giving her a small wave—
his way of saying he'd be gone for a while.
She stayed seated on the wooden bench near the grassy banks,
her arms folded lightly over her skirt,
her eyes lingering on the water.
That was when she felt it—
that shift in the air.
Her gaze lifted.
Silas was standing across the way,
near the edge of the bridge by the tailor's shop.
He hadn't noticed her at first.
He was speaking to the elders and the children nearby,
holding something in his hand—
a small object, wrapped in clean cloth.
After a quiet exchange,
he tousled a child's hair and turned toward the canal.
Then he saw her.
A stillness passed between them.
He took a breath.
And stepped forward.
Lhady didn't move.
Her eyes returned to the water.
Silas came closer, then paused.
"May I sit beside you?"
he asked, voice lowered.
She glanced at him once.
Then back to the canal.
"I can sit farther, if you'd prefer,"
he added, scratching the back of his neck.
"I don't mind,"
she said, softly.
Silas lowered himself to the bench—
just enough distance between them, as promised.
"I kept it longer than I should have,"
he began.
He slowly unwrapped the cloth in his hands.
Her mask.
The same one she'd worn
the night the world shifted under her feet.
Its violet silk had dulled at the edges,
worn now, lived-in.
The gem was still missing—
Caelum had returned it to her quietly, weeks ago.
She didn't reach for it.
Only stared.
"I was afraid to return it," Silas admitted.
"Because I didn't know if I deserved to."
His voice was steady. Honest.
Not seeking forgiveness—just truth.
"I thought maybe you wanted to forget that night.
But then I realized…
You never got the chance to forget.
I left you with all the weight and walked away."
Lhady didn't speak.
Her expression didn't shift.
Silas followed her gaze to the river,
then gently extended the mask—
holding it between them, without closing the space.
And in the quiet that followed,
she lifted her hand and took it.
Their fingers brushed.
Silas bowed his head—
deep, reverent.
Then rose to leave.
He paused, just once.
"I'll be gone for a while,"
he said, tone light but not flippant.
"Back to duty. But… I'll return."
There was no promise.
No push.
Just a quiet farewell
left in the golden air,
beside the stone she had thrown.
Lhady's fingers curled around the mask.
Silas's footsteps faded behind her.
The breeze shifted.
Softer now.
Carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke… and lavender.
She didn't look up right away.
But something in her chest stirred.
"I was told you preferred the quiet part of the canal,"
came Caelum's voice—low, calm, unintrusive.
She turned.
He was standing a few steps behind the bench,
a small bundle in his arms.
He'd changed out of his formal coat,
his sleeves rolled up,
as if he'd escaped the gathering early.
"I asked the elder woman where you'd wandered,"
he added, almost sheepishly.
"She said you were near the water."
"I didn't wander far,"
Lhady said, tucking the mask into her lap.
Caelum gave a soft smile, stepping forward.
"May I?"
She nodded.
He sat beside her—
on the same bench Silas had just left,
as if the space hadn't shifted
but time had.
"I brought you something,"
he said after a moment,
setting the bundle on her lap.
"You left without tasting the bread Mira made.
She would have scolded us both."
Lhady gave a faint laugh—
small, but real.
Caelum didn't ask about the mask.
He didn't need to.
His eyes, though gentle, had seen it in her lap.
Had seen Silas walk away.
But he said nothing.
Just looked ahead toward the fading ripples on the canal.
"I thought you'd want company,"
he said simply.
And so they sat—
two quiet figures beneath the lanterns,
as the golden hour gave way to dusk.
The silence between them was soft.
Not heavy like before.
Just the kind that lets the heart breathe.
Lhady didn't speak,
and neither did Caelum.
But somehow, in that stillness,
something settled.
Until—
"There you are!"
Mira's voice cut through the quiet like a warm wind,
followed closely by hurried footsteps.
Lhady blinked.
Mira, Sian, and Alen came into view,
slightly out of breath
and all a little dusty.
"You wouldn't believe it," Mira huffed,
brushing hay from her hair.
"Alen tripped into the storage shed
and knocked over half the paper lanterns."
"They shouldn't stack them so high,"
Alen muttered.
"And then Mira got caught trying to rescue a chicken
that wasn't even lost,"
Sian added, grinning.
"I was helping!" Mira protested, hands on hips.
Lhady's laugh finally came then—
light and real,
the kind that had been missing for days.
Caelum's gaze flicked toward her.
And the faintest smile touched his lips.
A loud voice rang out from the circle of elders:
"Come, you lot!
Don't think you'll sit out the dancing
just 'cause you're pretty and brooding!"
Laughter rippled across the square.
Someone began to clap a rhythm.
A fiddler raised his bow.
The night was calling them back.
Sian pulled Lhady up.
Mira nudged Caelum.
Alen sprinted toward the circle, nearly slipping again.
Lhady hesitated—
But Caelum stood,
offering his hand not formally,
but openly.
She took it.
And they joined the others
beneath the lantern-lit sky.
It was not the end.
Not yet.
But in that moment,
it was enough.
The elder tailor sat quietly at the edge of the circle, a shawl draped over her shoulders, a cup of sweet cider cradled in her hands.
Her birthday celebration had turned into a town affair—as it always did—but she preferred to watch rather than dance.
Her eyes followed Lhady and Caelum as they moved clumsily at first, then more easily.
Caelum had shed the stiffness she'd known him for.
And Lhady—there was laughter in her again.
She held her cup still, but her thoughts drifted back—decades, maybe more.
Thorne Amer had once stood in this very square, just by the old well. He was much younger then, though time had already etched its burdens into the lines around his eyes.
He hadn't come to her for a suit, like most young men. He had come for silence. For a favor wrapped in trust.
They'd spoken in hushed tones inside her shop after the lanterns had dimmed and the town had gone to sleep.
"She's not mine by blood," he'd said, the weight of it heavy in his chest, "but she's everything I have."
She remembered how he looked that night—coat damp from rain, eyes too tired for his age.
He was already preparing for a world he feared he wouldn't see through.
"I won't always be able to stand for her," he'd admitted. "But someone will. Someone must."
The tailor had stitched many things into garments over the years—secrets, charms, prayers—but that night, she held a different promise.
One not sewn into fabric, but into memory.
Now, watching Lhady from afar, with her quiet protector beside her, the tailor let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.
"She's smiling tonight," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Let her hold onto that joy… before the hard things find her."
She lifted her gaze to Caelum—his careful movements, the way he matched Lhady's pace without drawing attention.
And for just a moment, she saw a shadow of Thorne there—not in the face, but in the stillness, the quiet vow carried without need for words.
She heard a memory of Thorne's voice.
"I'll keep her safe," he had said, voice rough. "Even if I'm gone, someone will stand where I cannot."
And now, she thought, watching Caelum step lightly to let Lhady twirl with Mira,
maybe that someone is here already.
As the music swelled and laughter filled the square, Silas stood just beyond the circle, half-lit by the flickering lanterns.
His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, eyes tracing the soft curve of Lhady's smile as she spun once, then steadied herself with Caelum's help.
He exhaled.
That smile—he didn't want to leave it. Not yet.
But he had promised himself: tonight, only tonight.
He turned toward the tailor's porch, where the elder sat sipping the last of her cider, her shawl wrapped tighter now against the breeze.
"I should take my leave," he said quietly.
She looked up, unsurprised. "So soon? Couldn't you stay a while longer? At least until the candles burn down."
Silas offered her a tired smile. "I want to. But dawn comes early."
The tailor studied him for a moment. There was something unsaid in his eyes—something weighted, but not regret.
Before turning, Silas hesitated.
"Lady Calvera…"
She waited.
"Keep her warm. Would you?" His voice was soft. "She forgets her shawl when she's lost in things."
The elder's gaze lingered on him. "I'll see to it."
And with that, he stepped back into the shadows, boots tapping lightly against the cobblestones.
The celebration went on.
He was only a few strides from the edge of the square, near the path leading back toward the hills, when a low whistle drew his attention.
From the side of the tailor's shop—half-hidden in the dark—Corren stepped out, posture crisp despite the casual setting.
Silas raised a brow. "You're early."
Corren nodded once, his jaw set. "We leave at first light."
"Is something wrong?"
The younger man hesitated. Then:
"There's been a development. Not an order, but… a shift."
Silas stilled.
Corren's tone was measured, but clipped.
"Someone's being considered to oversee her."
A beat passed.
Silas didn't ask who. Didn't have to.
Corren glanced back toward the square, toward the lanterns and music.
"I thought you should know."
Silas folded his arms across his chest. "Can it be delayed?"
Corren's brow furrowed. "You could try. But they're moving quietly. This didn't come through proper channels."
Silas said nothing for a long moment.
The music behind them faded into background hum.
Then, finally:
"Then we intercept it. Whatever form it takes."
Corren gave a short nod. "We'll go in the morning. No one will question that."
Silas didn't move. His eyes were back on the square—on the spot where Lhady had been.
She was laughing still, arms linked with Mira and Sian, a moment stolen from the weight of everything.
He turned away.
And said nothing more.