Merchants were setting up stalls for the upcoming festival, their calls creating a cheerful cacophony as they arranged wares from across Vesper territory. Craftspeople were hanging decorations of silver and blue, Vesper's colors, from eaves and between buildings. The metallic threads caught what sunlight filtered over the eastern wall, sending scattered reflections across stone walls.
Children darted between adults' legs, playing some game involving touching shadows and running away, their laughter ringing out in sharp counterpoint to the deeper voices of the adults. Arashi watched them with a mixture of fondness and alienation, he had never truly been one of them, had never known the simple security of belonging.
An elderly woman sorting dried herbs at her stall nodded to him as he passed. "Festival headaches bothering you again, young archivist?" she called, her weathered hands never pausing in their work. "I've got feverfew and willow bark if you need it."
"I'm fine, thank you, Matron Risa," he replied with a respectful nod. The woman had been supplying him with herbal remedies for his headaches since he was twelve. She'd never asked about their cause, simply provided what help she could, one of the things he appreciated most about Meirōmura's people.
Meirōmura existed in the balance point between nations, both geographically and philosophically. Unlike the stark white purity of Lumina cities or the shadowed depths of Umbra settlements, the village embraced its twilight nature. Buildings were constructed of warm stone and wood, neither hiding from nor worshipping the shadows. Silver chimes hung from eaves, their gentle music believed to discourage Hollow Ones, while blue lanterns marked each intersection, ready to be lit when true night fell.
The sound of metal striking metal drew his attention to the smithy, where Toru was already at work. The rhythmic clanging had a musical quality that always fascinated Arashi, a resonance of sorts, though not the Divine kind. Toru caught his eye and lifted his hammer in greeting, his massive forearms glistening with sweat despite the early hour.
As he walked, Arashi felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes begin to build. It had been happening more frequently lately, a tightening sensation followed by moments where the world seemed to shimmer, as though seen through heat waves. The village healer had found nothing wrong with his vision, eventually chalking it up to eyestrain from his work in the archives. Arashi had accepted the explanation outwardly while harboring private doubts.
The pressure intensified as he passed the village's modest Echo Chamber, a small stone building where those with awakened Resonance could meditate and train. Unlike the grand Echo Chambers in major cities, this one was simple, maintained more out of tradition than necessity. Meirōmura had only three awakened Resonants among its five hundred residents, all with minimal Concordance levels suitable only for defense against the occasional Hollow One that approached the walls.
As always when he passed the Chamber, Arashi felt a strange pull, as though something inside recognized him. The sound emanating from within, audible only to him, he'd discovered through careful questioning, was like crystal goblets singing when their rims were stroked: beautiful, haunting, and somehow incomplete. He quickened his pace, ignoring the way the sound seemed to follow him, a phantom melody just at the edge of hearing.
The village archives stood at the northern edge of Meirōmura, a two-story stone building with unusually thick walls and small, high windows. It housed not only the village's records but also a modest collection of books and scrolls about the wider world, a repository of knowledge impressive for such a remote settlement. This was where Arashi had spent most of his life since Elder Takuma had found him as an infant, abandoned at the village gates seventeen years ago.
Inside, the familiar scent of old paper, leather bindings, and preservation oils greeted him, a mixture he found more comforting than the finest perfumes from Lumina markets. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The main room was filled with shelves and reading tables, while smaller rooms branched off for specialized collections and Elder Takuma's private study.
The light filtering through the colored glass of the high windows painted patterns on the worn wooden floor, patterns that Arashi had memorized in their seasonal changes. Winter light fell differently than summer light, creating an ever-changing map that only those who paid close attention would notice.
"You're late," came a gravelly voice from between the stacks.
Elder Takuma emerged, a slim man with a shock of white hair and alert eyes that seemed too young for his weathered face. Despite being nearly seventy, he moved with the grace of someone half his age, one of many things that fueled whispers that he had once been more than just a village archivist. Today he wore simple gray robes with blue trim, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle.
"Kira only just told me you were looking for me," Arashi explained, finishing the last of his bread. He brushed his hands on his trousers, conscious of the librarian's aversion to crumbs among the precious documents.
The Elder raised an eyebrow, the expression making the scar that bisected it wrinkle. "And I suppose you had nothing more pressing to do this morning than sleep away the daylight?"
Arashi didn't bother denying it. Elder Takuma had an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods, another skill that seemed out of place in a village record-keeper. The man's eyes could see through prevarication like sunlight through clear water.
"The dreams were bad," he said instead, meeting the older man's gaze directly.
Something flickered across the Elder's face, concern, perhaps, or confirmation of something long suspected. His eyes narrowed slightly, the way they did when he was examining a particularly obscure text.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to a nearby table. The wood was polished smooth from generations of scholars and villagers leaning over its surface. "Tell me about them."
This was unexpected. Usually, the Elder dismissed talk of dreams, preferring to focus on practical matters. His sudden interest sent a ripple of unease through Arashi.
He sat, watching as Takuma closed the archive's main door and lit a small lamp despite the morning light still streaming through the windows. The Elder moved with careful precision, each motion economical, the habits of a man who had learned the value of controlled movement. The click of the latch falling into place seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.