Chapter Four – Shatter Noodles Never Closed
Part Six – The One Who Barked at Silence
The door didn't creak. It cracked.
A gust of wind pushed in with the figure who entered—tall, squared shoulders, hair tied back in a sharp knot, collar rigid. His boots hit the stone with deliberate punctuation.
Riko.
He didn't look at Kyyan. Didn't look at the walls.
His eyes locked straight onto Zephryn.
"Figures. You're still haunting the places she used to sit."
Zephryn didn't respond. His fingers remained wrapped around the base of the bowl.
Kyyan didn't move. He kept drying the empty dish, gaze low and unbothered.
"You know," Riko continued, walking closer, "some of us stayed behind. We trained. We fought to keep her memory alive. You? You vanished. Then reappeared with white hair and no explanation."
His voice didn't tremble.
But something in it ached.
Zephryn lifted his eyes.
"You think I left on purpose."
"Didn't you?"
Kyyan placed the dish down.
"Riko," he said softly.
"No," Riko snapped, turning. "Let him hear it. Let him feel it.
Solara believed in him. And then she died—and he was nowhere.
Not at the mourning gate. Not at the final fire. Nothing."
Zephryn's chest tightened.
He's not lying.
He's not wrong.
But he doesn't know the truth.
"She didn't die the way they told you," Zephryn said, barely louder than the broth.
"Don't you dare."
"The Choir rewrote it."
Riko stepped forward. One foot past the edge of the mat.
His glyph—not visible—but pulsing just under the skin.
"You come back with dreams and glyph flares and suddenly you're the truth?
Don't stain her name with your broken memory."
The air thickened.
Not with tension.
With pulse.
Outside the window—a glint.
Something moved in the trees.
Azura.
Watching.
She'd followed Kyyan. She knew the trail.
She knew who Zephryn was now.
And more importantly—she knew that name.
Solara.
Her mark crackled.
Not a cast.
Not even visible.
But her breath faltered. And for Azura?
That meant fire was coming.
Back inside:
Kyyan stepped between them.
Calm.
Measured.
Deadly quiet.
"This place serves memory," he said. "If you're not here to remember, leave."
Riko clenched his fists. His pulse stuttered—like a glyph trying not to ignite.
"One day, Zephryn," he said, turning to the door. "When the silence you brought finally breaks, and everyone sees what you really are…"
He stopped in the doorway.
Didn't look back.
"I won't say I told them. I'll just be the one left standing."
When the door shut, the room didn't breathe again.
It stayed tense. Heavy. Brimming.
Zephryn looked at Kyyan.
"Was he close to her?"
"Close enough to break when she did."
Back in the trees, Azura leaned against the bark.
Her lightning crack had dimmed again.
But her voice—low, almost invisible—slipped into the forest:
"You're not the only one who lost her, Crest-boy.
You're just the only one who forgot."