The Flower Thief and Other Tales of Yalda - 2. The Tale of Two Little Reeds - First Scroll

In the Temple of the Whispering Reeds

Lunel, during Duskgold

The temple grounds were hushed as ever—rows of stone paths weaving through pale reeds that rustled only in the wind. High walls, blank of carving or inscription, enclosed the cloister in a ring of deliberate silence. Birds never lingered long near the Temple of the Whispering Reeds. Even the river nearby whispered less when it passed by.

It was Lunel, the fifth day of the week—sacred to the moon, to emotion and reflection. In the hour of Duskgold, when light waned and silence deepened, the world felt furthest from sound.

Jaren and Ailin walked in step, heads bowed, hands clasped behind their backs—just as they'd been taught. Around them, other disciples moved like shadows: hooded, voiceless, precise. The air was always cool, always still.

The boys had not spoken aloud since their vow, taken two years past during Auryn, on the first dawn of their twelfth year. Like all initiates, they had surrendered their names in the ritual—but kept them in their hearts, shared only with one another in secret.

Though the temple forbade sound, it did not forbid language. The initiates were schooled in the old finger-talk: a brisk, efficient sign language drawn from ancient reed-dancer codes. It was meant for clarity in meditation, for direction during rituals—but Jaren and Ailin used it to joke.

In the hour of Threshtide, while sweeping the courtyard or copying meditative glyphs in the reed-hall, their fingers whispered tales far too irreverent for temple eyes. A cockroach exalted to high priesthood. A toad mistaken for a wandering sage. Their eyes often ached with the effort of not laughing.

Their connection was a small rebellion in a place where warmth itself was seen as indulgence.

One Solen afternoon, during the hour of Duskgold, they cleaned the lantern hollows near the South Shrine. The light angled low and golden, casting long beams through the reed-screens. Jaren watched Ailin’s profile—the flicker of his lashes, the faint crease of concentration between his brows. His hand paused on the damp rag. His chest ached strangely.

When Ailin turned to ask for more oil, Jaren leaned forward without thinking and kissed his cheek.

The world didn’t fall apart.

But Ailin froze—eyes wide, mouth barely parted. His hand trembled as he signed a single word: Why?

Jaren didn’t have the signs. He didn’t even know if there were signs for what he was feeling—what it meant. His hands fluttered helplessly, then fell still. Around them, the reeds stirred in the Veilhour wind, brushing against the stone walls with a sound like breath.

That night, they didn’t meet in their usual alcove. At Aurynrise, Ailin was absent from morning meditation. Jaren’s thoughts galloped. Had someone seen them? Had Ailin confessed?

But after the fourth bell of Brightwake, he found a scrap of handmade parchment tucked in his robe—a stolen page from the scriptorium, with one word inked in Ailin’s careful brush: Go?

Jaren didn’t hesitate.

They fled after Starcall, when the temple shadows stretched long and unguarded. Not through the main gate—never—but through the forgotten drainage passage near the reed pond. The tunnel was damp and black as pitch, but they knew it well. They had once called it their Throat of the World, where sound would echo if they dared to make it.

They didn’t speak, not even once.

But when they emerged on the far side, reeds giving way to marshland, stars shining above in their uncaring splendor, Moonset Hour just beginning, Ailin turned. His fingers brushed against Jaren’s.

Are we banished? he signed.
Jaren took his hand. We’re free.

Ailin hesitated. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he smiled—and made a new sign, one they had never used before. A shape like two reeds leaning together in the wind.

Jaren smiled too. He repeated it.

They would have no home to return to. The Temple would speak no words of pursuit, but they would be watched for. That was the price of breaking silence.

But ahead was the world: full of voices, of danger, of sound and story.

And for the first time in years, the reeds behind them whispered loud with wind—and neither boy turned to listen.

In the Royal City of Yalda

Vena, during Solrise

Morning filtered gently through the bakery’s mullioned windows, gilding the flour-dusted countertops and casting long, warm beams across the polished wooden floor. It was Vena, the day of convergence and risk—fitting for two boys learning how to live outside silence. The hour of Solrise bathed everything in soft gold.

The scent of rising dough and caramelized fruit lingered thick in the air, mingled with the sharper undertones of black tea and clove.

From the loft above, a wooden ladder creaked softly. Ailin descended first, silent as always, his bare feet barely whispering against the rungs. Behind him came Jaren, the dark skin of his scalp still damp from a quick morning wash. They had slept curled together on a pallet in the warm loft, nestled among old blankets and bags of grain. It was the softest place either of them had ever slept.

As their feet touched the bakery floor, the door chimed softly. A figure entered, lean and silver-haired, with twilight in his eyes. He was an elf, with the ageless look of someone hovering near nineteen. “Ahh, Lysander!” Mistress Henla stepped forward, shooing the two little monks away from the counter. “Good Morrow, Mistress Henla.” Lysander bowed with a respectful dip of his head. “Young Cedric is usually the first person to darken my doorway every morning. And the first to break something. Where is that clumsy sweetheart of yours?” Mistress Henla demanded to know, her eyes sharp.

“Well, he’s—” Lysander began, but was interrupted by a great clatter outside the door. “Right behind me.” Lysander finished weakly. He sighed with exasperation, but there was a fondness in his gaze as he turned to find a broad-shouldered and sun-browned youth lying on the threshold of the bakery’s entryway. “Tripped over your own feet again?” Lysander said mildly as he pulled the boy upwards by the arm. “I’m still not used to having such long legs.” came the grumbled response. The older boys stopped just inside the threshold. Cedric’s easy gait faltered when he saw the two newcomers. Lysander, beside him, paused with more deliberate grace, studying the boys with quiet, analytical curiosity.

Cedric tilted his head. “Oh,” he said softly, “Mistress Henla mentioned something about needing new assistants.”

Ailin and Jaren stood frozen, as if uncertain whether they were in trouble for simply being there.

Cedric offered a small smile and stepped forward, hands in his pockets. “You’re not in the way,” he said, voice low and warm. “We just came for our usual—Lysander’s obsessed with the pear pastries.”

“I am not obsessed,” Lysander murmured behind him, brushing a lock of silver hair from his face.

“Obsessed,” Cedric said over his shoulder. “He memorized the delivery schedule.”

Lysander gave him a sideways look, then turned back to the two boys. “You're Temple-born,” he said—not unkindly, but with that Yaldan way of naming truths plainly.

Jaren tensed instinctively. Ailin’s eyes darted toward the door, calculating.

Cedric immediately stepped between them and the exit—not blocking it but placing himself in the middle of the room like a hearthfire. “You’re safe here,” he said quickly. “No one’s going to drag you back. Mistress Henla likes to pretend she’s sour, but really she’s as sweet as her jam rolls.”

Jaren relaxed slightly; Ailin did not.

Lysander reached into his satchel and, after a moment of rustling, produced two wrapped pastries. He held them out wordlessly.

Ailin took his with a slight bow of his head. Jaren hesitated, then gave Lysander the briefest flicker of a grateful smile.

Cedric gestured toward a small corner table, already set with mugs and steam curling from a pot of tea. “Sit with us, if you want. No pressure.”

There was a pause.

Then, shyly, Ailin sat. Jaren followed, close behind.

Cedric and Lysander settled across from them, not asking questions. Instead, Cedric began recounting—with unnecessary embellishment—the disaster of a school experiment involving frogs, fire, and a very confused goose. Ailin's eyes widened. Jaren covered his mouth, trying not to laugh aloud.

Lysander simply sipped his tea.

For the first time in days—perhaps longer—Jaren and Ailin relaxed. Not fully. Not completely. But enough to lean forward just slightly, to reach for a second bite of pastry, to exchange a tiny glance of wonder that said: Is this what freedom feels like?

Outside, the bells of the Temple Quarter began their low morning toll.

Inside, four boys sat together, sharing bread and a bit of stolen peace.

The Same Day

Vena, slipping toward Duskgold

Later that afternoon—Vena, the fourth day of the week, sacred to trade, bridges, and trust—the sunlight took on a richer hue, the golden cast of the Duskgold hour. Streets narrowed and warmed as shadows stretched long between brick shopfronts and open shutters. It was the hour when Yalda exhaled.

Cedric led the boys through winding lanes and up toward his home: a modest farmhouse just beyond the city walls, nestled in the Southmere district, where herb-scented vines curled over redstone windowsills and lanterns were lit early—not to chase darkness, but to welcome it.

Inside, they were shown the washroom first—Cedric muttered something about ‘the unholy crust of travel’—then offered broth and day-old bread, softened with lavender honey.

While they ate, Cedric knelt beside a cedarwood trunk at the foot of his bed and began rifling through it.

“These should do,” he said at last, tossing a tunic toward Jaren. “Bit big, but nothing a belt can’t fix. And you—” he handed Ailin a pale blue shirt, slightly faded, with careful embroidery at the cuffs, “—you get one of Lysander’s. Congratulations. You’re now the elegant one.”

Ailin blinked at him.

Cedric winked. “Don’t worry. He won’t ask for it back.”

From the next room, Lysander’s voice floated in, dry as old vellum: “I’ll just enchant something embarrassing into the hem.”

Jaren cracked a brief, startled smile. It was the first time Cedric had seen him react so openly.

Later, as Veilhour edged into Starcall, the city dimmed, the sky violet through the kitchen window. Lamps were lit. The scent of barley soup simmered from a neighbor’s hearth, mingling with the cinnamon Cedric spilled while trying to impress them with “spice mastery.” He sneezed three times and spilled the entire tin.

They all laughed—Ailin soundlessly, Jaren like a breath he forgot to suppress.

They slept that night curled together on a wide mattress dragged into the loft, their borrowed clothes folded at the foot of the bed. The hush of Noxen crept in, thick with rest and dreams. But neither boy stirred to leave.

The Next Morning

Lunel, during Brightwake

Lunel arrived cool and silver-edged, slipping softly through the high windows like the hush before a question. It was the fifth day—the day of the moon, of emotion and reflection. The bakery stirred into life as Brightwake passed into Solrise, the hour of warmth and waking.

Neither boy tried to sneak away.

Instead, they helped in the bakery—quiet, precise, useful. Jaren folded linen sacks with the care of someone used to ritual. Ailin rolled dough without need of instruction.

No questions were asked.

No answers were offered.

Just small, careful beginnings.