"Tell me," He began, voice no louder than a whisper yet heavy enough to quiet the restless. "Which matters more: an answer or a question?"
A kobold boy blurted out, "An answer!"
The drakeon shook his head. A flick of his wand twisted the air into shape until a stone hovered before him. "No. An answer is a stone. Once given, it is held, and it rests in the heart. But a question…ah, a question is a river. It moves. It carries you to places you did not know existed."
The illusion in the sky twisted to form a river flowing through plains. The illusion in the sky contorted to form a river flowing through the plains. As the drakeon's voice rang out, shapes formed above followed suit. It took a wizard of great skill to cast without using their tongue.
A teenager called out, brow furrowed, "But without answers, we would only ever keep questioning."
The drakeon's smile was slow, almost kind. "Of course answers are needed. Stones build walls. Stones pave roads. You stand on stone this very moment. But tell me this, what use is a wall if you never ask why it was built? What use is a road if you never wonder where it leads?"
He paused, letting the silence settle before continuing, voice steady and calm. "An answer ends a thought, but a question begins one. Answers hold us in place, but questions move us forward. Through your life you will forget countless answers: numbers, names, even truths you once swore were unshakable.
But the right question will linger. It will follow you into the night, return with the dawn, and remain until your final breath. And it is in chasing such questions that men and women find the shape of their lives."
The drakeon's illusions faded with the wind. Children whispered to one another, asking questions just like he'd wanted. Eventually they drifted off, a few bold ones staying to pepper him with little queries until even they wandered away. I stayed put.
When the square was finally quiet, I crossed my arms. "You talk well. I'll give you that. But it's easy to sound profound for a half hour and impress a crowd. Can you hold those same kids' day after day? When they're tired, or hungry, or just plain don't care?"
His yellow eyes found mine, steady. "Children are not as fickle as adults like to think. They grow restless only when their teachers confuse complication for wisdom."
"Mmhm." I tilted my head. "All right then. Prove it. Take something hard and make it simple. Pretend I'm one of those kids."
He studied me for a long moment, as if weighing whether it was worth it. Finally, he said, "Justice. Scholars can spend lifetimes writing on it. But to a child? If someone steals your bread, justice is returning it. If someone gives you theirs, justice is remembering it. That is enough. The seed of justice is fairness. And even the youngest know fairness."
I snorted. "Not bad. But you've been saying questions matter more than answers. That doesn't fly with me. A soldier doesn't win wars by questioning things — she wins them by having answers. When to shoot, where to stand, who to trust. Questions don't keep monsters off the walls."
He gave the faintest smile, sad in a way that made my skin prickle. "And yet every answer you named begins with a question. Where is the enemy weakest? What area needs to be reinforced? Who can I trust? Without the questions, the answers never come."
"Pretty words. I've heard my share of those." I shook my head. "But you can't mortar a wall together with riddles. You need stone, sweat, and someone barking orders."
His voice softened, but it carried. "And why was the wall built? That too was once a question. And when it fell, what question will shape what comes next? Answers hold for today. The right question shapes tomorrow. A soldier without questions is a weapon. A soldier with them may become a leader."
I didn't like how that landed. The river below whispered like it was agreeing with him. Damn river.
"What did you do before this?" I asked.
"I advised the council at Tifan's Gate," he said.
"And how did that work out? Last I checked, the Gate didn't exactly hold."
His eyes dimmed. He hesitated. "Words cannot bind stone. But sometimes words move hearts. If even one person carried a thought with them… perhaps the next wall will be stronger than the last."
"Or maybe there won't be a wall at all. Maybe we all die screaming."
For a moment, silence. Then he said, "Another question then. If there is no wall, how do we walk forward on unpaved roads?"
I rubbed at my temple. Gods, he was infuriating. Always a question back.
"Fine," I muttered. "You're well-taught. Do you have work?"
He blinked, caught off guard by the shift. "No. Those who employed me are… gone."
"Then you do now." I extended a hand. "Roof, food, pay. I'm not asking for a babysitter. I want someone who can hold attention, give these kids something more than I can."
His eyes lingered on my hand, wary. "I don't know if I'm the man you want."
"You'll do," I said flatly. "Just do your best. That's more than most."
With a firm shake, the deal was struck. The drakeon's hand was rough, his scales flaking at the edges, but the grip was steady. He followed me without another word through the twisting streets.
The city was quieter than I liked on the way to the orphanage, but there were clouds hovering over the noble part of the city. Before long we reached the orphanage, but the kids were gone, scattered throughout the guild helping with the chores. I showed up a room upstairs. It wasn't much: a straw mattress, a chipped desk, and a single window cracked open to let in the damp air. He sat down as if the chair itself was luxury. I let him.
"Get comfortable," I muttered. "Tomorrow, we'll see if you can keep their attention without illusions."
His mouth twitched into a faint smile, but he said nothing. He looked around as his hand slowly passed over the desk. "Thank you Ms?"
"Velyan. And you?"
"Sir Talos. No, just Talos is fine." He muttered.
"Well met."
I left him there and cut back across the city to the house Annalise had been talking about. The sun was slanting low, orange light bleeding between the rooftops. By the time I pushed open the door, I half-expected shouting, maybe laughter.
Instead, silence.
The table had been split in two, a jagged scar running its length, mutton soup soaking into the floorboards. Splinters glittered across the room like teeth. No blood, though. That was something. Someone had just lost their temper.
I stepped over the wreckage and went upstairs. My room was still in one piece. Same thin bedroll, same cracked basin. Same silence.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I let myself breathe. For the first time that day, no children listening with hope to my words, no Qapla smirking in the yard, no Annalise grinning over some bloody carcass. Just me.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling beams, dust trembling with each gust of wind. Maybe the kids would have better lives than I ever scraped together. Gods willing, maybe they'd never know what it meant to beg for a wall to hold. Or worse, to claw for years at the hope of getting their parents back.
My parents hadn't died quietly before I could remember them. No, I knew them. Knew the sound of my father's laugh, the way my mother scolded with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. I knew my sister's sharp tongue, the way she always ran ahead, daring me to keep up.
And then one night they were gone.
The house was all but flames by the time the neighbors dragged me out. The walls were cinders, the air thick with smoke and iron. I found the bloodstains myself, the gouges on the floorboards, the signs of resistance. They didn't run. They were taken.
No graves. No answers. Just silence where their voices should have been, and a burning hole in my chest I've been trying to fill with steel and discipline ever since.
I reached under the pillow and drew out the book. The leather was worn, corners chewed. My notes filled its margins—names, sketches, fragments of half-truths bought in taverns or carved into stone deep in the Expanse. All of them chasing the same prize.
The first page bore a single illustration: a jagged stone, edges drawn harsh and sharp. Beneath it, my hand had scrawled the title like a curse.
The Resurrection Stone.
The horn of the Great Devourer, a name without a face. Sever it, and the laws of life and death themselves would falter. With it, the dead could walk again, loved ones restored. But only if they were dead.
I traced the ink with my thumb.
A fool's chase, maybe. Every lead I'd followed had ended in ash or lies. But still the thought clung to me, a sickness I couldn't cure. What would I give to see them again? What price would I pay?
I closed the book hard enough to make the desk rattle.
Tomorrow, the drakeon would start with the children. Annalise would scheme, Qapla would train, Helena would bury herself in her damn books. And me? I'd keep looking.
Because if the wall had taught me anything, it was this: hope is a weapon. Dangerous. Heavy. But if you learn how to carry it, sometimes it cuts deeper than