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The caravan of knights was loud and restless, voices overlapping as they spoke of trivial things—food, laughter, the loved ones waiting for them back home
Only he, and Salt Cellar riding at his side, remained silent.
That silence did not stop his thoughts from wandering.
They drifted instead to the other Virtues.
He got along well with the Herald—always eager for friendly combat, proud in victory, humble in defeat. There was excitement in never knowing how the match would end.
Sugar welcomed him each time with gifts and the sweetest melodies in her garden, a place to rest, to eat well, and above all to enjoy her presence—one capable of lifting anyone’s spirits without exception.
Mystic was agreeable and quiet, but in a way that evoked peace. She found beauty in the simplest things and was generous, always willing to help whoever needed it.
And then there was Fount.
The smallest of them all—and the first to be baked.
His dough shimmered with the same intensity as the moon, and his hair was like the sky itself—beautiful beyond words.
Salt would be lying if he claimed there was nothing about that cookie that captivated him. Admiring Fount came naturally; there was not a single cookie in Earthbread who didn’t.
But Salt’s admiration felt… different.
Their meetings were always diplomatic in nature. Nothing personal. Nothing improper. Duty, after all.
And yet—always, without fail—Salt found his head drifting among the clouds.
He watched Fount closely, memorizing the rhythm of his steps, the sway of his hair, the way he blinked. Because to Salt, there was no cookie more perfect than Fount.
When he finally emerged from his thoughts, he realized he had let out a sigh heavy enough for Salt Cellar to notice.
Her gray, expressionless eyes turned to him, searching for some other sign.
She halted her horse abruptly, forcing those behind them to stop just as suddenly, bumping into one another. Salt Cellar spoke firmly.
“Let us rest here. Set up camp for the night.”
The response was immediate. Orders were followed, protocol well known. The group dispersed efficiently.
Salt Cellar met the commander’s gaze. He said nothing. He dismounted his mare and helped wherever he could.
Within half an hour, the camp was ready for the night. They were riding home after a mission that had taken several days.
Salt hadn’t even realized how much he missed Fount, and his letters.
The Five Virtues exchanged letters frequently. Once every few months, without fail. They saw each other far less—once a year, perhaps twice.
It was never enough for him.
Salt always answered Fount’s letters the moment they arrived.
Sometimes once a week. Sometimes more.
Fount wrote about everything—his studies, his students, the Spiral. Rarely about himself.
And yet, every word mattered.
Salt entered his tent—the largest one—and lay down on the cot. He unpacked his documents: maps, strategies, duties yet to be reviewed. His responsibility. His virtue.
But beneath a small map, something caught his eye like a flash of lightning.
A letter of blue envelope with gilded edges.
He hadn’t even known it was there.
Careful not to damage it, he slid it free—and recognized it immediately.
A letter from the Spiral of Knowledge.
From Fount.
Salt blinked twice, uncertain how it had found its way into his belongings. He checked everything he carried—once, twice, four times. Nothing was missing. Nothing extra.
The letter had simply appeared.
Perhaps by magic.
Fount always found a way back into his life.
Salt sat up and carefully opened the blue envelope sealed with the Spiral's emblem.
His heart raced at the mere thought that Fount had taken the trouble to send it to him by magic.
A soft scent of blueberries filled the air.
The letter was perfumed.
Salt felt his face warm instantly.
---
“My esteemed knight,
I hope these lines find you well, and that the sky has been kind to you in every journey since I last had the comfort of reading your voice. I have waited patiently, yet I must confess that the prolonged silence weighs more heavily upon my spirit than I would like to admit.
I do not ignore how demanding our duties are, nor how rarely the road grants us respite; still, my heart insists on wondering after you.
Your letters have been more to me than mere messages—they have been companionship in quiet hours, the cause of unbidden smiles, and, dare I say, a gentle light within my thoughts. Perhaps that is why I now feel their absence so keenly, like one who misses a melody they did not realize had become necessary.
If I am to be honest—and with you, I always try to be—I miss you. I miss your voice, even when I know it only through words, and the way you seem to understand me despite the distance. I long for the day when time and duty finally grant us the privilege of seeing eachother again, without ink and paper between us.
Until then, I hold you in constant affection and entrust you to my prayers. Do not make me wait, if you are able; your reply will be received with more gratitude than these lines can express.
With deepest esteem,
The Fount of Knowledge”
---
Salt stared at the letter long after he finished reading.
The world seemed to stop.
The bustle of his subordinates outside the tent no longer mattered. His mind raced, processing the daring tenderness of the words he had received.
Fount rarely addressed him so directly. His letters often read like diary entries—gentle, observational, they could be shared and there would be no difference.
But this—
This was for him.
Only for Salt of Solidarity.
Written with care.
Written because Fount missed him.
Salt felt his dough simmer beneath his heavy armor.
The image of a shy Fount wondering where his letters had gone made him ache.
The tent flap opened suddenly.
Salt looked up sharply to find Salt Cellar standing there. She glanced at him, then at the scattered documents, and finally at the letter in his hands.
Salt was grateful for his helmet. Without it, his face would have betrayed him—red as a spicy cookie.
“Do need anything?” he asked.
Salt Cellar cleared her throat, her expression unchanged.
“Dinner will be served shortly. Join us when you wish.”
Salt nodded.
She left without another word—but she understood, after all, she was the one who placed each blue envelope into his hands when they arrived.
Salt carefully returned the letter to its envelope.
Every instinct urged him to answer immediately. To tell Fount how deeply he longed to see him.
But reason prevailed.
He left the letter where he had found it and joined the others.
They welcomed him with smiles. His bowl of soup waited. He sat slightly apart, Salt Cellar and a few newbies beside her, their conversation focused on progress and training. He listened quietly.
Behind him, he overheard one of his men.
“Man… I miss my wife.”
Another laughed, a bit too loudly.
“You'll get used to it, mine hasn’t stopped sending letters. Makes me feel like she needs me at home.”
“I know. She understands why we’re gone—knows it’s important. But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. Feels like I’m losing her.”
They sounded drunk.
Normally, Salt would have ignored such talk.
Tonight, he understood it all too well.
Duty was his purpose. His reason for existing.
And yet—
He wished to be by Fount’s side.
He wanted Fount to need him, too.
He didn’t want distance to be the only thing binding them. He didn’t want being Virtues to be all they were.
Salt set his bowl aside and stood, drawing the attention of those at his table.
“Commander,” he said, “have the leftovers distributed to the nearest village in the morning. If there isn’t enough, cook more. We will rest until midday, then return home.”
Salt Cellar’s eyes widened briefly before returning to neutral.
“There were still matters to attend to. The journey will take another week.”
“We will resume next week,” Salt replied. “The village is not far. We will not fall behind, but for now, we return home.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded.
“As you command. Rest well.”
As he walked back to his tent, he exchanged good nights with the others. He felt a twinge of guilt for changing plans so suddenly—but he would feel worse prolonging everyone’s separation from their families.
They all had someone to return to.
He did, too.
Salt prepared paper and ink dark as night.
He closed his eyes, wondering how best to address Fount.
---
My esteemed Fount,
I received your letter with sincere relief, and I must tell you that few things have offered me greater comfort than finding your voice once more within words. I regret the silence that preceded this reply; it was not born of disinterest, but of circumstances demanding my full and inmediate attention.
I have thought of you more often than prudence might allow. On long roads and during silent watches, your memory presents itself with a clarity that does not fade, no matter how firmly I try to impose the restraint my position requires. Knowing that my absence troubled you honors me deeply, though I wish I had not been the cause of such concern.
Your letters, like yourself, possess a quiet intelligence that accompanies without imposing, and a gentleness that lingers. In them, I find a calm no physical rest has ever granted me.
I am not one to speak lightly of my feelings, nor would I promise more than the world allows; yet I ask you to know that my esteem for you has not diminished with distance nor with time. On the contrary—it endures.
I long for the moment when I may see you again and offer you, at the very least, the certainty of my loyalty and of an affection that remains faithful even in silence. Until then, I carry you with me in a constancy that needs no words to endure.
With unaltered respect and quiet devotion,
Salt of Solidarity
---
The words flowed easily when they were meant for Fount.
Salt read the letter once more, surprised by how naturally his feelings had taken shape.
He placed it into a plain white envelope and sealed it carefully.
Waiting until returning home to send it felt unbearable.
Fount had waited long enough.
Salt set the letter at the center of the tent, raised his hand, and summoned a halo of turquoise magic. The envelope vanished in an instant.
It had to reach him soon.
Salt hoped it would. He hoped his words might ease Fount’s loneliness.
He stared at the empty space for a while, wondering if Fount was already reading it, or if he had yet to find it.
Salt lay back on the cot and removed his helmet, setting it aside.
Strange, he felt warmer than before as his thoughts drifted to the radiant blue cookie.
He didn’t need sleep. None of the Virtues did.
Still, he closed his eyes and waited for the day to end.
He wanted to see Fount.
When he opened his eyes again, the camp was stirring. Dawn approached, and everyone rose to tend to their duties.
Salt put on his helmet and straightened his cape.
The morning passed quietly. He helped dismantle the camp while others rode ahead to the village, horses were fed, Salt Cellar ensured every task was done.
Their gazes met now and then.
Nox leaned into his touch as they prepared to depart.
The mare turned north.
Salt understood.
The town wasn’t north.
He was.
Salt pretended ignorance, mounted her, and rode on with his men behind him.
He heard their conversations,excitement, laughter, longing. Everyone was returning to someone.
Home.
Salt had never questioned his duty, his people, his purpose.
But somehow—
He felt that same pull toward Fount.
He wanted to protect him. To return to him.
To call him home.
Salt tightened his grip on Nox’s reins.
What would the witches think if they knew how he felt for the embodiment of knowledge?
Perhaps they already did.
Perhaps that was why they never answered.
The village soon came into view. Cheers rang out behind him as horses surged forward.
Only Salt Cellar remained at his side.
Nox stayed still, awaiting command.
After a moment, Salt Cellar spoke gently.
“My lord… you have something in mind, don’t you?”
Salt kept his eyes on the village.
“The road to the Tower of Knowledge takes only a day.”
She turned to him, emotionless yet kind.
“Go to him. I will ensure everyone is ready to depart when you return.”
They looked at eachother.
Salt said nothing—only lower his head slightly and turned his mare.
“I trust you.”
Nox broke into a gallop, swift as only she could be.
To home.
To him.