The Veiled Northern Road stretched quietly ahead of us.
North.
Toward Yggdra.
For two days, the road followed the coastline.
Not close enough to hear the waves constantly.
But close enough that the air always carried salt.
By the second evening, we reached a place called The Silver Reed Coast.
I think it may have been one of the quietest beautiful places I have ever seen.
Not grand.
Not overwhelming.
Soft.
The sand along the shore was pale grey-white, smooth beneath the fading sunlight.
But what defined the coastline were the reeds.
Silver Reed.
Tall.
Thin.
Endless.
They covered the hills behind the beach in shimmering waves.
When the wind moved through them, the entire coastline shifted like flowing liquid metal.
The sound was gentle.
A dry whispering.
Like thousands of tiny brushes sliding against one another.
At times, the reeds reflected sunlight so brightly that parts of the hills seemed almost unreal.
As if someone had spilled fragments of the moon across the earth.
The sea itself was calm.
Blue-green water.
Slow waves.
White seabirds gliding low over the reeds before disappearing again into the mist further north.
In the morning, thin fog clung to the fields of silver grass.
Not enough to hide them.
Only enough to make the entire coast feel dreamlike.
I spent most of the journey looking outside the wagon window.
Quietly.
Port Roderick had not left my thoughts.
That surprised me more than anything.
I missed the city already.
The harbor lights.
The promenade.
The warm noise of restaurants near the sea.
I even found myself missing Spathian.
Which felt deeply concerning.
Somewhere during the road north, I also began thinking about home.
About my family.
About how long it had been since I last saw them.
The feeling settled strangely inside me.
Not painful.
Not heavy.
Just…
distant.
At some point, I realized the wagon had become quiet enough that only the reeds outside could be heard.
Then I felt a hand against my shoulder.
Gentle.
Careful.
I turned slightly.
Ryn was looking at me.
Her expression was soft.
Softer than usual.
Like she was trying not to startle something fragile.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.
I told her I was fine.
Just thinking about home a little.
About family.
And then something changed.
I noticed it immediately.
Her expression shifted again.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Not composed.
Concern.
Real concern.
There was something almost cautious in her eyes.
As if she was afraid I might suddenly break apart if she spoke too loudly.
Then she asked softly,
“Do you feel lonely?”
For some reason—
that moment activated something deeply unreasonable inside me.
Perhaps it was the memory of the hot spring.
Perhaps it was the way she looked genuinely worried.
Perhaps I simply lost to impulse again.
I turned fully toward her.
And stared.
Directly into her eyes.
Without speaking.
Ryn slowly stopped moving.
The wagon continued forward quietly.
Outside, silver reeds bent beneath the wind like waves beneath moonlight.
Then, in the same low voice I used during performances, I spoke.
Softly.
Deliberately.
“Do you know what loneliness is?”
“Loneliness is what I made to be.”
“I am the emptiness that stretches when the divine crumbles.”
“I am the space between the pillars for halls that shall not be walked.”
“I cannot be lonely…”
“For that is what I made to be.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Ryn’s expression stopped functioning entirely.
Her face lost color slowly.
Not dramatically.
Which somehow made it much worse.
I held eye contact for another few seconds.
Then calmly turned back toward the wagon window before I started laughing.
Barely.
Outside, the Silver Reed Coast continued endlessly beneath the evening light.
And somewhere behind me, I could physically feel Ryn reconsidering every life decision that had led her into this wagon.
I think this counts as revenge for the “it will grow” comment at the hot spring.
I regret nothing.
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