Chapter Five: A Listener Isn't a Mage
They found Maelra by accident.
Which Kerris later insisted was impossible, because "people like that don't get found; they do the finding."
She lived at the edge of the city where the stone forgot how to pretend it was civilized. The buildings slouched instead of standing straight, old walls patched with newer ones like scars poorly healed. Moss crept where mortar had once been proud.
Maelra was sitting on a low step, sharpening a chisel.
The sound—stone on metal—scraped the air in a way that made Aerin's chest tighten.
"Don't," Maelra said without looking up.
Aerin froze.
"I didn't—" Kerris began.
"I wasn't talking to you," Maelra said calmly. "And you," she added, finally lifting her eyes to Aerin, "take your hand off the wall."
Aerin realized, with a jolt, that their fingers were pressed flat against the stone beside the doorway.
They pulled back quickly.
The pressure in their chest eased, like something settling reluctantly back to sleep.
Maelra studied them for a long moment. Her hair was iron-gray, braided tight against her skull. One arm ended at the elbow, smooth stone replacing flesh—not carved, not ornamental. Functional. Old.
"You hear it loud," she said.
Aerin swallowed. "I don't know what that means."
"No," Maelra agreed. "You wouldn't."
Kerris cleared his throat. "Hi. Kerris. Professional problem-finder. Part-time nuisance. We were just—"
"—walking where you shouldn't," Maelra finished. "Yes. I noticed."
She stood, slow but solid, the stone arm heavier than it looked. When she stepped closer, the ground noticed. Aerin felt it—the faint hum of alignment, like the world recognizing one of its own habits.
"You think you're a mage," Maelra said to Aerin.
"I never said that."
"You're thinking it," she replied. "Which is worse."
Aerin flushed. "I just… things happen when I touch things."
Maelra snorted. "Things happen when children touch fire too. Doesn't make them blacksmiths."
Kerris winced. "She's got a point."
Maelra turned her gaze fully on Aerin. "You're a Listener. That's all. That's where it starts—and where many die, if they get ideas."
"What's the difference?" Aerin asked quietly.
Maelra tapped her stone arm. The sound rang dull and deep.
"A mage forces the world," she said. "A Listener hears it. You don't command echoes. You notice them. That's why they rush to you. That's why you're still breathing."
Aerin thought of the alley. The warmth. The memory of standing.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know," Maelra said. "That's what scares me."
She stepped past Aerin and pressed her stone palm to the wall beside the door. The stone did not crack. Did not warm.
It stilled.
The hum in the air softened, disciplined into silence.
"This," Maelra said, "is control. Earned over decades. Paid for in pieces."
Aerin's gaze dropped to the stone arm.
Maelra followed it and shrugged. "Mountain took it. Fair trade, all things considered."
Kerris blinked. "I feel like there's a story there I'm absolutely not allowed to ask about."
"Correct."
Maelra looked back at Aerin. "You're standing at the edge of something deep and old. If you keep listening without learning when to stop, the world will answer until it drowns you."
Aerin felt the truth of it settle heavy in their bones.
"What do I do?" they asked.
Maelra hesitated. Just for a breath.
Then she said, "First? You learn that not every voice deserves your attention."
She turned toward the door. "Second—you decide whether you want to survive."
The door creaked open.
The stone did not argue.