Filling the Days

[Jaxen Marveet]

Chapter 12: The Dusty Sword

Jole exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Light, but she was predictable. He turned away, hands clasped behind his back, and let the silence settle between them like dust in an abandoned hall. If she’d already made up her mind, what was the point of arguing? He wasn’t about to beg his bond-master to chase after a weapon.

He wandered the room, idly tracing the rough grain of the wooden table with his fingertips, every slow step deliberate. The air was still, thick with the scent of old books and melted tallow, pressing in like a second presence. He liked that—liked the way the quiet wrapped around them, forcing her to either speak or stew in her own stubbornness.

“Way I see it,” he said at last, glancing at her over his shoulder, “a weapon left to gather dust is still a weapon. Someone will reach for it. Could be you. Or you could sit back and watch someone else take it first.”

He smirked, half-amused, half-disappointed. She hadn’t even asked what kind of weapon it was. That told him enough. Devika was born of a barbaric Age that saw only steel and fire, where the sharpest blade won the day rather than the sharpest wit. He supposed he shouldn’t blame her. Not everyone could think beyond the edges of a sword.

“So tell me, Aes Sedai,” he said, pivoting to face her fully now, arms folded across his chest. His grin turned sharp. “Do you want to hold the blade, or do you want to wait and see whose hands it ends up in?”

“What do you want to do?”