Something in-between

The Guards

Beneath the dense canopy of trees, one of the guards knelt, fingers brushing against the damp forest floor. Something was there, half-buried beneath the thick pile of fallen leaves. A flash of fabric—darkened by dirt and rain, yet unmistakably out of place. His breath hitched slightly as he reached for it, fingers hesitating just above the cloth.

Could it be—?

A sharp voice cut through the silence.

"Oi! It's coming down hard—we're wrapping up!" Another guard called, shaking the rain from his cloak.

The kneeling guard stiffened. His fingers hovered, barely an inch from the fabric. The cold wind sent a shiver up his spine, a strange unease settling in his gut. Should he check—?

A sharp clap echoed through the clearing. The captain's voice followed, firm and decisive.

"No point in wasting time here. Seems like nothing's around."

"Nothing here. Let's move!"

The kneeling guard exhaled, his breath visible in the chill. With one last glance at the leaves, he withdrew his hand and stood, stomping moisture from his boots before turning away. The sound of shifting armor and hurried footsteps faded into the growing storm.

Unseen, unnoticed beneath the thick blanket of leaves, a torn fragment of Claire's dress lay still.

Silent proof.

And they had been moments too late.

---

Stones of Solace

The rain had grown heavier by the time Ken and Claire reached the ruined watchtower.

It loomed before them, half-concealed by overgrown foliage, a forgotten relic swallowed by time. The stone walls bore deep cracks, weathered and scarred, yet they still stood—stubborn against the elements. Vines curled up its sides, weaving through fractured stone like nature's quiet reclamation.

Ken lifted a hand, pointing toward it. "Here."

Claire's gaze followed, her eyes tracing the tower's jagged silhouette against the stormy sky. There was something about it—something oddly compelling.

Ken exhaled, tugging off his cloak, droplets flicking from its surface. "Oh, great. We made it in time." He gave the fabric a shake, relieved that their belongings weren't completely drenched. The downpour was relentless now, drumming against the leaves, but the watchtower had granted them shelter.

His fingers ran over the cold stone, expression shifting. "I thought it wasn't intact at first," he admitted, pressing his palm against its surface. "But it's more solid than it looks." He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "I shouldn't have doubted this place."

Claire stepped inside, the storm's roar dulling as the thick walls swallowed the sound. She took in the ruins—every crack, every vine, every trace of what had once been. "Was this a watchtower?" she asked, brushing her fingers against the rough stone.

Ken nodded. "Yeah. Likely abandoned a long time ago. Could've been part of an old border outpost."

"Then why is it still standing?"

Ken smirked. "Luck? Or maybe good craftsmanship." He patted the wall. "Either way, it works in our favor."

His attention shifted as he scanned the driest area inside. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out the kindling he had prepared earlier. "Good. It's dry enough." He crouched down, preparing to start a fire.

Claire exhaled slowly, unaware she'd been holding her breath.

"…Seems like no one followed," she thought.

The storm outside swallowed any traces of their path. The dense forest had concealed them well. No sounds of pursuit.

For now, they were safe.

She let out another quiet breath.

It was good.

Her fingers brushed against the worn stone again as she stepped further inside. The surface was rough beneath her fingertips, yet beneath the years of decay, faint carvings remained—patterns, barely visible, whispering of a forgotten time.

The air inside was thick with dampness, but something about it felt… still. As if the tower had been waiting for someone to return.

Near the center, the remains of an old firepit lay untouched, its stones blackened from use long ago. Rusted fragments of metal—armor?—were scattered in the corners, half-buried beneath dust and leaves. A faint draft curled through the cracks, carrying the scent of rain and earth.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. This place had seen people before.

"How long do you think this has been here?" she asked, her voice quieter than before.

Ken glanced up. "Long enough that whoever built it is probably dust now."

She shot him a look. "Helpful."

He smirked but didn't respond, focused on starting the fire.

Claire's gaze returned to the walls. Some sections had collapsed inward, letting vines creep through, yet the structure remained sound. Defensible, even.

Her palm pressed against the stone again. Cool. Sturdy.

Whoever built this—did they abandon it? Or was it simply lost to time?

Ken's voice pulled her back. "I'll get a fire going. Dry your hair before you catch a fever or something."

She blinked, realizing he was watching her.

For a moment, she hesitated.

Then, with a quiet sigh, she moved to sit by the firepit, fingers still curled in her damp cloak.

Ken worked in silence. The tower stood around them, shadowed and waiting.

It was well hidden.

And for now, it was theirs.