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The castle was quieter at night.
Not silent—never silent—but softened. The kind of quiet where footsteps didn’t echo as sharply and even the torches seemed to burn a little lower, as if they, too, were tired of holding everything up.
Callum sat on the stone balcony wall with a sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil hovering but not moving. He’d been staring at the same half-finished drawing for at least ten minutes now.
It was supposed to be a bird.
It looked like a lumpy potato with wings.
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t even know why I try sometimes…”
“You’re frowning at it like it insulted you.”
Callum startled, nearly dropping the sketchbook. “I—! I didn’t hear you.”
Harrow stepped out onto the balcony, a faint, tired smile on his face. “That’s because you were deep in battle.”
“With a potato-bird,” Callum muttered.
Harrow walked closer, resting his hands on the stone railing beside him. For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just looked out over the dark stretch of Katolis, lit by scattered lanterns.
Callum hesitated, then angled the sketchbook slightly away. “It’s not… good.”
“May I?” Harrow asked.
There was no command in it. Just a question.
Callum paused, then slowly turned the sketchbook around.
Harrow studied it longer than Callum expected. Not the quick glance people usually gave before saying something polite. A real look.
Finally, Harrow nodded. “It looks like it’s trying very hard to be a bird.”
Callum groaned. “That’s worse than saying it’s bad.”
Harrow huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I mean it. There’s effort in it. Intention.” He tapped lightly near the wing. “You were thinking about how it moves, weren’t you?”
“…yeah.”
“I can tell.”
Callum blinked. “You can?”
“I can tell when someone is trying to understand something, instead of just copying it.” Harrow leaned back against the railing. “That matters more than getting it right the first time.”
Callum looked down at the drawing again, a little less defeated. “It still doesn’t look like a bird.”
“Not yet.”
There was a small pause.
Callum shifted, letting his legs swing slightly off the edge of the wall. “Ezran doesn’t have to try that hard to understand things.”
Harrow didn’t answer immediately. Callum almost wished he hadn’t said it.
“Ezran understands some things very easily,” Harrow said at last. “And other things… he will struggle with, in ways you might not.”
Callum glanced at him. “Like what?”
Harrow’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “Like doubt. Questioning. Seeing more than one side of something.” He glanced over, meeting Callum’s eyes. “Those aren’t weaknesses, Callum.”
Callum looked away again, quieter now. “It doesn’t feel like that.”
“I know.”
Another pause—but not an uncomfortable one. Just… space.
Harrow straightened slightly. “When I was younger, I thought being strong meant being certain all the time.” He gave a faint, almost self-aware smile. “I was wrong more often than I’d like to admit.”
Callum let out a small breath. “You don’t seem unsure.”
“That’s because I’ve had years to practice pretending otherwise.”
That got a short laugh out of Callum. “So… you’re just better at hiding it?”
“Much better,” Harrow said. “But not better at *feeling* it.”
Callum tapped his pencil lightly against the page. “So what am I supposed to do with it?”
“With doubt?”
“Yeah.”
Harrow considered that. “Listen to it,” he said. “But don’t let it decide everything for you.”
Callum frowned slightly. “That sounds complicated.”
“It is.”
They both smiled at that.
A breeze moved through the balcony, lifting the edge of Callum’s sketchbook page. He held it down absently.
“…Do you ever wish things were simpler?” he asked.
Harrow exhaled slowly. “Every day.”
Callum looked up at him, surprised by how quickly that answer came.
Harrow’s expression softened. “But simpler isn’t always better. Sometimes it just means… smaller.”
Callum thought about that, turning the words over in his head.
After a moment, he nudged the sketchbook back into place and started drawing again. The lines were still a little wobbly—but they moved with more purpose now.
Harrow didn’t interrupt. He stayed where he was, quiet and steady, like he understood that this—this silence, this shared space—was part of the conversation too.
After a minute, Callum spoke again, more casually this time.
“…If this turns into another potato, I’m blaming you.”
Harrow raised an eyebrow. “For what, exactly?”
“For giving wise advice that didn’t fix my drawing.”
Harrow nodded thoughtfully. “A fair accusation.”
Callum smiled a little, still focused on the page.
And for a while, that was all there was—pencil scratching softly against paper, the low hum of the castle at rest, and the quiet presence of someone who didn’t need you to be perfect to stay.