Oryn and the Listener's Lens

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The path smelled of cold iron as Oryn tightened the reins. Beneath him moved Kark, a mount made of scales, gears, and glowing eyes. Fireflies hovered between the trunks, the moon hung lazily over the Glass Forest as if no one had wound it. In his pocket lay the Listener's Lens—the last piece the village had left since the well fell silent. Oryn was to hear what was missing and bring it home. The trees whispered in a language of clicks and breath. Oryn thought of the children's dry lips, his mother's empty jug, the silence that was louder than any words. The path ended in a clearing, in the center of which stood a black post—inside it a blind glass, round and motionless. It was said that those who forgot their debt to the springs had to pay the rest here. Oryn dismounted and raised the lens. It was cold, like an unspoken lie. He placed it against his ear—nothing. Against Kark's neck—nothing. Then against the stake. The air wrinkled, and from the shadows stepped a small figure, half light, half shard. "You seek the reason for the silence," it said. "And bring only ears." "I bring what I have." The figure smiled thinly, holding a pair of shadow scissors. "Every spring has two sides. Your villagers drink only one. The well now wants the rest. Give what it demands." "And that would be?" "A name you don't bear." Oryn laughed hoarsely. "I've lost many." "Then give me one." He clutched his chest, pulled out something invisible—a sound, small and sharp. It caught in the lens, like a spark in a glass. The blind eye on the stake began to rotate. A smell of wet stone rose from the ground, and water gurgled somewhere. "The well remembers," the figure said. "But the night takes interest." "Which one?" "You keep the path—but not why you took it." Oryn looked at the lens, feeling pain and clarity at the same time. "If I don't pay?" "Then someone who loves you will pay." Kark lowered his head, and Oryn understood. "Then I myself will pay." He placed the lens against the stake, and the glass opened like an eye that had been closed for a long time. The wind suddenly smelled of life. "So be it," the figure said. "But remember: The spring hears those who stay. And it forgets those who hurries." Oryn mounted. Kark's body vibrated like a breath. The forest receded as they rode off. Behind them, the pole fell silent, and the night tightened. When they reached the village, dawn broke. The well stood there, still and awake. Oryn placed the lens on its rim – the water rose, reflecting the sky, then breathed. A sound ran through the village, as if someone had shaken dust from the light. Oryn smiled for no reason. He remembered the path, not the task. But that was enough. He wrapped the lens in the leather and tied it tight. "If the night asks, we'll bring it back," he murmured.