Chronicles of the Untalented

The ever-dim sky hadn't changed, but something in Silas had.

He walked the quiet streets with a limp in his step and dried blood still clinging to the hem of his sleeve. His contribution points were wrapped tightly in one fist, but they felt heavier than coin ever should.

He didn't go home.

He didn't want to sit in a quiet house, staring at the walls, pretending the world hadn't shifted sideways.

So he went to the library.

Velira looked up from her desk the moment the door creaked open. She didn't greet him—just studied his face. The bruises. The too-stiff posture. The dirt.

And something in his eyes she hadn't seen before.

"…You're back early."

Silas nodded. "The job's done."

She waited for more.

After a long moment, he walked past her and sat in the same chair he always used. Not with his usual slouch, but like his body wasn't sure how to move anymore.

Velira moved around the desk and sat beside him.

"What happened?"

"A hellhound pack," he said. "Big ones. We got ambushed."

Velira didn't flinch. "Casualties?"

Silas took a breath. "One dead. Nessa. And Len…" He hesitated. "He'll be alright. Lost an arm. But he'll live."

A silence settled between them, brittle as dried paper.

Velira looked at him, then gently asked, "Are you alright?"

"I don't know," Silas said.

It wasn't said with drama or self-pity. Just honesty.

"I don't feel bad exactly. I'm just… stuck. Like my head hasn't caught up to what happened." He looked down at his hands, still scratched and sore. "She didn't do anything wrong. We were just unlucky."

Velira leaned back, exhaling through her nose. "That's how it happens. No buildup. No fairness. Just—gone."

He nodded slowly.

"I keep thinking I should've done more," he added, after a pause. "Not that I could've saved her. Just… something. Anything."

"She was your teammate," Velira said. "Of course you feel that way. But don't start writing a story where you're the villain. You're not."

Silas glanced sideways at her, lips twitching slightly. "Didn't know you were the kind to say comforting things."

"I'm not," she replied. "I'm just being realistic. You want comfort, go cry in a cathedral. You want someone to tell you when you're full of it, you come to me."

A small, tired laugh escaped his chest.

They sat in silence again, softer this time.

"Thanks," he said eventually.

"For what?"

"For not trying to fix it. Just… letting it be."

Velira shrugged. "Sometimes there's nothing to fix. Just cracks you learn to walk with."

Silas looked toward the ceiling, eyes heavy. "She was just joking with us the day before. Asking dumb questions. Complaining about the food. And now…"

"She's gone," Velira finished. "Yeah. That's what this world does."

Another silence followed.

Then Velira stood, stretched, and tossed him a wrapped roll from her pack. "Eat something before you pass out."

Silas caught it clumsily. "You're weirdly nice today."

"Don't get used to it," she said, already walking back to her books. "I'm just trying to keep my favorite lunatic functional."

"…Favorite?"

"Only lunatic I know."

He didn't respond. But when he took the first bite of food, his hands shook a little less.