Chapter Text
The mountain was still new to Alsan then, its rhythms strange to a man used to markets and desert roads. The silence pressed differently here, not as emptiness but as a presence, alive with the rustle of wind in pine and the quiet murmur of monks at prayer. And in that silence, the boy shone brightest, too vivid, too untamed for stone cloisters.
It happened on their sixth night together at the Peak.
The monastery had gone quiet, its halls settled into silence broken only by the occasional footstep of a patrolling monk. Eric was sleeping deeply after another day of bitter medicine, his snores softened by the thick wooden walls. Alsan lay awake in the guest chamber, watching the shadows cast by the oil lamp flicker against the ceiling. He had been thinking of home, of the desert’s wide sky and the endless shifting sand, how different it felt from the mountain, where everything seemed carved in stone.
And then, soft as breath against his ear, came a sound.
At first, he thought it was memory, his mind dredging up an old tune from childhood, something his mother had hummed when she cooked lentils in the evenings. The melody was faint, almost fractured, but the cadence was unmistakable. It curled around him like smoke, threaded with an echo that did not belong to the silence of the room. He sat up sharply. The air was still. No one was there.
And then..words. Not spoken but felt, a tremor brushing the edges of his thoughts: …sorry.
Alsan froze. The voice was not his own, nor memory. It was Zylrie’s.
He glanced around wildly, as if expecting the boy to be standing in the corner. But no, he was in another wing of the monastery, Alsan had left him hours ago at the dining hall, laughing with the cooks. The melody drifted again, tentative now, like someone testing a doorway they weren’t sure they should step through. The faintest impression of warmth accompanied it, a golden thread brushing against Alsan’s mind, carrying the blonde’s essence, bright, restless, shy beneath the boldness.
“Enough,” Alsan muttered aloud, dragging a hand over his face. His voice was rougher than he intended, as though sound itself could sever the connection.
And just like that, the song stilled.
The silence after was heavy, thick with the awareness that something had passed between them, something that should not have.
~
When Alsan finally found him the next morning, he sat cross-legged on the low stone wall near the well, hair tied up loosely, a small bird perched on his knee as though it belonged there. When he saw Alsan approach, the boy smiled, open and unguarded. But Alsan did not smile back. He stopped a few paces away, his expression carved into steel.
“You sang to me,” he said flatly.
Zylrie blinked. “I-?”
“In my head,” Alsan continued, the words measured but sharp. “Without my leave. You put your voice where it doesn’t belong.”
The bird startled and flew off at the hard edge in his tone. Zylrie’s lips parted, confusion flickering first, then a slow flush of shame as he lowered his gaze to his hands. “I.. didn’t mean to.” His voice was soft, careful, like someone afraid of breaking glass. “Sometimes it slips out, like breath. I don’t even notice until after. I was humming in my head, and it found its way to you.” His lashes lifted, and his eyes were too bright, too honest. “Did it frighten you?”
Alsan studied him, jaw tight. “I don’t like intrusions.”
“I know.” The boy looked away, biting his lip. Then, softer, almost teasing: “But you didn’t push me out. Not right away.”
That disarmed him more than anything else. Alsan had no answer. He only turned back to the well, drawing up water with more force than was necessary, trying to ignore the echo of that faint song still haunting the edges of his thoughts. The boy tilted his head, curls tumbling over his cheek. His eyes seemed brighter in the morning light, too bright, catching not just the world before them, but something beyond.
“I suppose I should tell you,” the blonde said, “..that I belong to two worlds.”
“And what does that mean?” the merchant’s eyes kept looking more confused the more they spoke.
Zylrie leaned back, propped on his hands, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. “People like me, we are children of dreams. Not born only of men and women, but touched by the spirits who wander the dreamscape. My mother said I was strange from the beginning, crying not only in the night, but even in her sleep, pulling at her thoughts until she could not rest. She was afraid. So she left me here, among men who could teach me discipline. And yet..” His voice softened, almost wistful. “Even discipline cannot untangle what I am.”
Alsan listened, his chest heavy with something he could not name. He had met men from countless lands, heard stories spun from silk and salt alike, but this.. this was different. This was not performance or embellishment. The boy’s words rang with an otherness he could not deny. Zylrie turned his gaze to him suddenly. “When I close my eyes, I do not only dream. I walk. I step into others’ minds. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes..” He let the word trail off, playful, though his eyes were serious. “Perhaps even yours.”
The merchant’s jaw tightened. He had always guarded his thoughts, his past, his griefs. The idea of anyone slipping through them like a thief unsettled him more than he cared to show. “Then stay out,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.
To his surprise, Zylrie only laughed, bright as a bell, then leaned closer. “I promise, I am no thief. I only stumble. Like a child wandering into rooms not his own.”
Alsan met the blonde’s gaze, and for a moment, there was no laughter. Only that piercing brightness, as though the boy saw him, not with eyes, but with something deeper.
“Be that as it may,” he muttered, “your nature is yours. Not mine. Keep your feet in your own dreams.”
And Zylrie, for once, said nothing more, only watched him with eyes that seemed to know too much, as though he could already hear the next song stirring quietly in the merchant’s guarded heart.
~
The kitchen smelled of spices and roasted meat, the fire snapping in the low hearth. Alsan leaned against the heavy oak table, arms crossed, his expression tight but thoughtful. Vero moved about easily, a ladle in one hand, his apron dusted with flour and ash.
“You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?” Alsan asked suddenly. His voice was low, measured, almost reluctant.
Vero glanced up, a brow raised. “The boy? Zylrie? Aye. Longer than most. Why?”
The merchant shifted his weight, gaze flicking toward the small courtyard beyond the kitchen door, and he lowered his voice. “He.. entered my head. I heard him. A song. No one else, only me. I don’t take kindly to being trespassed upon.”
Vero leaned back against the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth, and let out a small chuckle. “Trespassed? Saints, you make it sound like he’s rifling through your drawers. The boy doesn’t hear what you don’t give him, Alsan. That’s not how it works.”
Alsan’s jaw clenched. “Then what is it?”
The cook shrugged, thoughtful. “Didn’t he explain to you? He can speak without his tongue, that’s all. He can open a door between your head and his, but he only sees what you offer through it. If he sang to you, it’s ‘cause he was thinking of you. Or maybe you were restless, hm? He does that with the children. Lullabies them when their dreams are too loud. Calms them right down.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the truth. “So you’re saying it wasn’t intentional?”
“Not unless you gave him reason.” Vero met his gaze squarely, softening only after a beat. “Zylrie’s no spy. He doesn’t pry. Half the time, he’s afraid to use that gift at all. Doesn’t want to unsettle people.”
Alsan’s lips pressed into a thin line. The notion of someone brushing against his private thoughts, even unknowingly, stirred unease in him. He had built walls around himself brick by brick. The idea of someone slipping past them, even with a song, felt dangerous.
Vero tilted his head, studying him. “You’re a private man, Alsan. I see that plain as day. But sometimes… when he’s in someone’s head by accident? It’s because his mind wandered their way. Because they were on his heart.”
Alsan’s gaze flickered again toward the courtyard. He thought of Zylrie on the cliffs, hair caught up to keep it from the wind, eyes bright. Beautiful, radiant, almost otherworldly.
“He was thinking of me,” Alsan murmured, more to himself than Vero, and the words seemed to carry a weight he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.
Vero gave a small, knowing smile. “Seems so. And I reckon it disturbs you more than it should.”
Alsan didn’t answer. He only stood there a moment longer, thinking about that glimmer of gold, before turning away, unsettled by the thought of being sung to in the privacy of his own mind; and even more unsettled by how much, ultimately, despite his adverse reaction, maybe he hadn’t hated it.