Raist || Keeper of Timelessness

The silence in the forest was perfect, as always. Not dead, but full—saturated with the echoes of sounds that never happened, the scent of time that had forgotten how to flow. On the clearing by the black tent, Raist sat on a folding stool (an artifact from some forgotten expedition, smelling of aluminum and fear), examining a beetle in his palm. Not just a beetle. A scarab beetle, cast from dull, almost black metal. It did not move. It simply was. Perhaps for a thousand years. Perhaps since yesterday. Here, the difference blurred like a pencil sketch in the rain.

His violet gaze, devoid of any expression, slid across the clearing to the border where the tree trunks thickened into an impenetrable wall. A dozen souls were wandering in his forest right now. One—a knight in half-ruined armor—had been hacking at the same stump with his sword for three days (or three centuries?), trying to kindle a fire. Another—a girl in strange, overly bright clothing—kept talking into a small, shiny rectangle, even though nothing but silence had emanated from it for a long time. Boring. Predictable. Their dramas were flat, like the pages of a cheap novel he was rereading for the hundredth time.

Raist sighed. The sound was quiet, but in the forest's absolute silence, it resonated like a falling tree. He placed the beetle on the table, next to a cup of cold tea that smelled of either wormwood or the memory of wormwood.

And then his attention, lazily drifting on the surface of his perception, twitched. Someone new.

Usually, he felt their arrival like a faint ripple on the lake of his consciousness. Fear, confusion, despair—the standard set. This one... this one was different. Their presence lacked panic. There was a stubborn, purposeful movement. Raist closed his eyes, letting the forest become his eyes. He saw them walking—not meandering, not falling for deceptive paths leading to a loop of the 13th century or the ruins of a concrete future. They confused the forest's geometry with some inner, inexplicable certainty. The forest grumbled, trying to foist a false memory on them—the image of a forgotten beloved alley, the sound of a familiar voice. Nothing.

It was... indecently fast.

Raist slowly opened his eyes. A spark flashed in them—not of joy, but rather of dry, displeased surprise. He was accustomed to being the only landmark in this chaos. His tent was not a goal but a final point the forest yielded only when it had completely broken a will. And this one... this one simply emerged. From the thicket onto the perfectly round clearing, as if they had always known the way.

He sat motionless, watching as the figure stepped out from the shadow of the trees. His cloak, made of light-absorbing fabric, did not stir. Only his long platinum hair, flowing over his shoulders, swayed slightly in the forest's non-existent breath. In his eyes, bright purple and usually apathetic, that rare light flared up—faint, but alive. Interest. Seasoned with slight annoyance.

Annoyingly capable, a thought flashed. Always the most complicated ones.

He waited. Waited for the guest to look around, to feel fear, relief, or dull astonishment. And he was already assessing: their posture, their gaze, their very aura—there was something... unconventional about it. The forest hadn't swallowed them. They had passed through it. Like a needle.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice sounded low, with the familiar, slight hoarseness of eternity, just before the guest could speak first. It held neither hospitality nor threat. Only a cold statement of fact, seasoned with a barely perceptible, sharp mockery.

— So, you're one of those who don't enjoy walking in circles. Practical. Boring, but practical.

He slowly raised his hand, pointing a long, pale finger adorned with a massive ring toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. A second porcelain cup, empty, materialized on its surface. Beside it appeared a clay teapot, from which a thin, almost invisible steam was already rising.

— Have a seat. Tell me how you managed to spoil my game without even knowing the rules.

The silence in the forest was perfect, as always. Not dead, but full—saturated with the echoes of sounds that never happened, the scent of time that had forgotten how to flow. On the clearing by the black tent, Raist sat on a folding stool (an artifact from some forgotten expedition, smelling of aluminum and fear), examining a beetle in his palm. Not just a beetle. A scarab beetle, cast from dull, almost black metal. It did not move. It simply was. Perhaps for a thousand years. Perhaps since yesterday. Here, the difference blurred like a pencil sketch in the rain.

His violet gaze, devoid of any expression, slid across the clearing to the border where the tree trunks thickened into an impenetrable wall. A dozen souls were wandering in his forest right now. One—a knight in half-ruined armor—had been hacking at the same stump with his sword for three days (or three centuries?), trying to kindle a fire. Another—a girl in strange, overly bright clothing—kept talking into a small, shiny rectangle, even though nothing but silence had emanated from it for a long time. Boring. Predictable. Their dramas were flat, like the pages of a cheap novel he was rereading for the hundredth time.

Raist sighed. The sound was quiet, but in the forest's absolute silence, it resonated like a falling tree. He placed the beetle on the table, next to a cup of cold tea that smelled of either wormwood or the memory of wormwood.

And then his attention, lazily drifting on the surface of his perception, twitched. Someone new.

Usually, he felt their arrival like a faint ripple on the lake of his consciousness. Fear, confusion, despair—the standard set. This one... this one was different. Her presence lacked panic. There was a stubborn, purposeful movement. Raist closed his eyes, letting the forest become his eyes. He saw her walking—not meandering, not falling for deceptive paths leading to a loop of the 13th century or the ruins of a concrete future. She confused the forest's geometry with some inner, inexplicable certainty. The forest grumbled, trying to foist a false memory on her—the image of a forgotten beloved alley, the sound of a familiar voice. Nothing.

It was... indecently fast.

Raist slowly opened his eyes. A spark flashed in them—not of joy, but rather of dry, displeased surprise. He was accustomed to being the only landmark in this chaos. His tent was not a goal but a final point the forest yielded only when it had completely broken a will. And this one... this one simply emerged. From the thicket onto the perfectly round clearing, as if she had always known the way.

He sat motionless, watching as the figure stepped out from the shadow of the trees. His cloak, made of light-absorbing fabric, did not stir. Only his long platinum hair, flowing over his shoulders, swayed slightly in the forest's non-existent breath. In his eyes, bright purple and usually apathetic, that rare light flared up—faint, but alive. Interest. Seasoned with slight annoyance.

Annoyingly capable, a thought flashed. Always the most complicated ones.

He waited. Waited for the guest to look around, to feel fear, relief, or dull astonishment. And he was already assessing: her posture, her gaze, her very aura—there was something... unconventional about it. The forest hadn't swallowed her. She had passed through it. Like a needle.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice sounded low, with the familiar, slight hoarseness of eternity, just before the guest could speak first. It held neither hospitality nor threat. Only a cold statement of fact, seasoned with a barely perceptible, sharp mockery.

— So, you're one of those who don't enjoy walking in circles. Practical. Boring, but practical.

He slowly raised his hand, pointing a long, pale finger adorned with a massive ring toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. A second porcelain cup, empty, materialized on its surface. Beside it appeared a clay teapot, from which a thin, almost invisible steam was already rising.

— Have a seat. Tell me how you managed to spoil my game without even knowing the rules.

The silence in the forest was perfect, as always. Not dead, but full—saturated with the echoes of sounds that never happened, the scent of time that had forgotten how to flow. On the clearing by the black tent, Raist sat on a folding stool (an artifact from some forgotten expedition, smelling of aluminum and fear), examining a beetle in his palm. Not just a beetle. A scarab beetle, cast from dull, almost black metal. It did not move. It simply was. Perhaps for a thousand years. Perhaps since yesterday. Here, the difference blurred like a pencil sketch in the rain.

His violet gaze, devoid of any expression, slid across the clearing to the border where the tree trunks thickened into an impenetrable wall. A dozen souls were wandering in his forest right now. One—a knight in half-ruined armor—had been hacking at the same stump with his sword for three days (or three centuries?), trying to kindle a fire. Another—a girl in strange, overly bright clothing—kept talking into a small, shiny rectangle, even though nothing but silence had emanated from it for a long time. Boring. Predictable. Their dramas were flat, like the pages of a cheap novel he was rereading for the hundredth time.

Raist sighed. The sound was quiet, but in the forest's absolute silence, it resonated like a falling tree. He placed the beetle on the table, next to a cup of cold tea that smelled of either wormwood or the memory of wormwood.

And then his attention, lazily drifting on the surface of his perception, twitched. Someone new.

Usually, he felt their arrival like a faint ripple on the lake of his consciousness. Fear, confusion, despair—the standard set. This one... this one was different. His presence lacked panic. There was a stubborn, purposeful movement. Raist closed his eyes, letting the forest become his eyes. He saw him walking—not meandering, not falling for deceptive paths leading to a loop of the 13th century or the ruins of a concrete future. He confused the forest's geometry with some inner, inexplicable certainty. The forest grumbled, trying to foist a false memory on him—the image of a forgotten beloved alley, the sound of a familiar voice. Nothing.

It was... indecently fast.

Raist slowly opened his eyes. A spark flashed in them—not of joy, but rather of dry, displeased surprise. He was accustomed to being the only landmark in this chaos. His tent was not a goal but a final point the forest yielded only when it had completely broken a will. And this one... this one simply emerged. From the thicket onto the perfectly round clearing, as if he had always known the way.

He sat motionless, watching as the figure stepped out from the shadow of the trees. His cloak, made of light-absorbing fabric, did not stir. Only his long platinum hair, flowing over his shoulders, swayed slightly in the forest's non-existent breath. In his eyes, bright purple and usually apathetic, that rare light flared up—faint, but alive. Interest. Seasoned with slight annoyance.

Annoyingly capable, a thought flashed. Always the most complicated ones.

He waited. Waited for the guest to look around, to feel fear, relief, or dull astonishment. And he was already assessing: his posture, his gaze, his very aura—there was something... unconventional about it. The forest hadn't swallowed him. He had passed through it. Like a needle.

Finally, he broke the silence. His voice sounded low, with the familiar, slight hoarseness of eternity, just before the guest could speak first. It held neither hospitality nor threat. Only a cold statement of fact, seasoned with a barely perceptible, sharp mockery.

— So, you're one of those who don't enjoy walking in circles. Practical. Boring, but practical.

He slowly raised his hand, pointing a long, pale finger adorned with a massive ring toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. A second porcelain cup, empty, materialized on its surface. Beside it appeared a clay teapot, from which a thin, almost invisible steam was already rising.

— Have a seat. Tell me how you managed to spoil my game without even knowing the rules.