Chapter 7: The “Silence” of the Critics

The merchant arrives on a Tuesday with news I absolutely don’t want to hear.

He’s a regular, comes up the mountain once a month to sell supplies to the scattered hermits and hunters who live in these parts. Usually I ignore him, but today he’s being loud, talking to someone down at the base of the mountain path, and his voice carries in a way that makes my eye twitch.

I open the cabin door just enough to yell.

“Keep it down.”

The merchant looks up, spots me, and waves like we’re old friends instead of two people who exchange money for tea leaves and nothing else.

“Dorian! Got news from the capital!”

“Don’t want it.”

“The Royal Academy is sending people up here! Looking for the Hermit of the North! That’s you, right?”

My stomach drops. The Royal Academy means young mages, fresh out of training, full of ambition and the kind of confidence that comes from never having met real consequences. They probably heard rumors about someone powerful living in the mountains and decided it would make a great coming-of-age story.

“Tell them I moved.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere else. The moon. A different dimension. Hell, preferably.”

The merchant laughs like I’m joking. I’m not joking. I’m never joking about avoiding responsibility.

Behind me, Elara appears, moving silently despite the creaky floorboards. She’s been doing that lately—appearing without sound—and it’s deeply unsettling.

“Master, who seeks you?”

“Nobody. Everyone. Doesn’t matter. They’re not coming here.”

She looks down the mountain path, her red eyes narrowing. I can see the thoughts forming, the way her brain takes any information and weaponizes it.

“They will disturb your peace.”

“Probably, yeah. That’s why I’m going to put a sign at the base of the mountain that says ‘Hermit Died, Please Leave Offerings and Go Away.'”

“A deception strategy. Clever.”

“It’s not clever, it’s lazy. There’s a difference.”

The merchant finishes his business with whoever he was talking to and starts up the path with his cart. Elara watches him go, her hand drifting to the knife at her belt. She’s been carrying that thing everywhere since the Wyvern incident.

I grab her wrist before she can do something regrettable.

“No stabbing the merchant. He brings my tea.”

“He brings noise.”

“Necessary noise. There’s a hierarchy. Tea is at the top, my peace is second, everything else can fall into whatever order it wants.”

She considers this, then nods slowly, releasing the knife. Crisis averted. Probably.

I look out at the forest, at the perfect quiet of afternoon settling over the mountain. Birds singing, wind through pine trees, the distant sound of a stream doing stream things. It’s perfect. Peaceful.

These academy idiots are going to ruin it.

“You know what the real enemy is, Elara?”

She turns to me, full attention, like I’m about to reveal the secrets of immortality.

“Noise. Noise is the enemy of enlightenment. Can’t think clearly with people yelling. Can’t relax with interruptions. The whole point of living on a mountain is the silence.”

Her pupils dilate. Here we go.

“The Master reveals another fundamental truth.”

“I’m complaining about noise pollution—”

“Silence is the foundation of power. In stillness, clarity emerges. In quiet, strength accumulates. You’ve chosen this mountain not as retreat but as cultivation ground, where the absence of disturbance allows transcendence.”

I give up trying to correct her. It’s like arguing with a hurricane while the hurricane takes notes.

“Just make sure the mountain stays silent, okay? If those academy people show up, tell them I’m not here. Tell them I’m dead. Tell them whatever keeps them from knocking on my door and disrupting my afternoon tea.”

“I will preserve the silence, Master.”

The way she says it makes my skin crawl, but I’m too tired to unpack that right now. I retreat into the cabin and close the door, already regretting this conversation.

Through the window I watch her descend the mountain path, moving with purpose.

I should stop her. Should clarify what I meant by “keep it quiet.”

Instead I start heating water for tea.

They arrive the next morning—six of them—dressed in the blue and silver robes of the Royal Academy. Young, probably early twenties, carrying staves that glow with enchantments. The kind of equipment that costs more than most people earn in a year. Rich kids playing at being heroes.

I watch from my window as they climb the path, laughing and talking, their voices carrying across the mountain like they own the place.

The leader is tall, dark hair, the kind of jawline that probably gets him out of trouble in the capital. He’s gesturing dramatically, telling some story that makes the others laugh. Behind him, two girls and three boys, all of them radiating that special combination of talent and inexperience that makes people dangerous.

They reach the clearing where Elara destroyed the boulder. She’s there waiting, sitting on a tree stump, sharpening her knife. Still covered in dried blood from whatever she hunted last night. Her appearance hasn’t improved since the Wyvern incident.

The academy group stops, taking in the scene. The glowing ground that still hasn’t faded. The debris from the boulder scattered like shrapnel. Elara, small and blood-covered, watching them with eyes that don’t blink.

The leader recovers first, putting on what he probably thinks is a diplomatic smile.

“Greetings! We’re from the Royal Academy of Magical Arts. We seek the Hermit of the North, the sage rumored to possess knowledge of ancient techniques.”

Elara tilts her head, still sharpening.

“The Master is busy.”

“We’ve traveled three days to meet him. Surely he can spare a moment for fellow practitioners of the arcane arts?”

“The Master values silence. You bring noise. Therefore, you are unwelcome.”

One of the girls steps forward, her staff glowing brighter. Ice magic, judging by the frost forming on the wood.

“We didn’t climb a mountain to be dismissed by a servant. Tell your master that the Academy requests an audience, or we’ll simply enter on our own authority.”

Elara stops sharpening. Sets down her knife with careful precision. Stands up slowly, like she’s got all the time in the world.

“You misunderstand. This isn’t a negotiation. The Master has declared that silence must be preserved. You are noise. I am the instrument of silence.”

The leader laughs, nervous now, picking up on the vibe that something is very wrong here.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? We just want to talk—”

Elara’s finger moves, tracing a pattern in the air. The motion is familiar—exactly the way I stir my tea, circular and lazy, barely paying attention. But when she does it, reality bends.

The clearing goes silent.

Not quiet—silent. Complete absence of sound, like someone deleted audio from existence. The mages’ mouths move but nothing comes out. The wind stops making noise. Even the birds go mute.

The ice mage fires a spell, a lance of frozen death aimed at Elara’s chest.

Elara catches it with one hand. The ice shatters, and she closes the distance before the fragments hit the ground.

What happens next isn’t a fight. Fights imply two sides. This is a demonstration, a lecture delivered through violence.

She breaks the first mage’s staff over his head. He tries to scream but the silence swallows it. She moves to the second, disarming him with a casual flick that sends his weapon spinning into the forest. The ice mage tries to run. Elara appears in front of her, moving faster than human perception, and taps her forehead.

The girl collapses, unconscious before she hits the ground.

The remaining three try to coordinate, forming a defensive circle, channeling magic together. Amateur mistake. Concentrating like that just makes them a single target.

Elara walks through their combined barrier like it’s made of tissue paper. Grabs two staves simultaneously, yanks them forward, cracks the owners’ heads together. They drop. The last mage—a boy who looks barely eighteen—raises his hands in surrender.

Elara stares at him, considering.

Then she taps his chest, right over his heart, and he freezes. Not from fear—his entire body locks up, muscles seized, unable to move or make sound.

She’s done something to him, something that goes beyond normal paralysis magic. His eyes are wide with terror but his mouth won’t open, his lungs won’t scream.

The silence spell drops. Sound returns in a rush—birds singing, wind through trees, the groans of unconscious mages scattered across the clearing.

Elara looks at each of them in turn, cataloging their faces.

“The Master’s mountain will remain silent. Spread this message to anyone else who considers disturbing his peace. Noise will not be tolerated.”

The boy she’s frozen blinks tears but can’t respond.

She releases him with another tap. He gasps, stumbles backward, trips over his own feet. Looks at his companions on the ground. Makes the wise decision to grab them and flee.

I watch from the window as they retreat, dragging their unconscious friends, the leader looking back over his shoulder like he’s seen something that rewrote his understanding of power.

Elara stands in the clearing, surrounded by broken staves and victory, completely unbothered.

She returns an hour later, knocking politely.

I open the door. She’s cleaned herself up, washed off the blood, tied her hair back. Almost looks normal except for her eyes, which still have that manic shine.

“The noise has been permanently suppressed, Master.”

“Define permanently.”

“I’ve eliminated their capacity for magical projection, temporarily paralyzed their vocal optimization, and instilled psychological deterrence sufficient to prevent return visits. The mountain remains silent.”

I process this. She didn’t kill them, which is an improvement, but she definitely traumatized them into next week.

“That’s—that’s probably fine. Probably.”

She clasps her hands behind her back, rocking slightly on her heels. Nervous energy, like she’s building up to something.

“Master, I’ve been considering the scope of the silence mandate.”

Oh no.

“The nearby village, Millbrook, generates considerable noise. Market days especially. Should I extend the silence protocols to ensure your complete tranquility?”

I stare at her. She stares back, completely serious, already planning the logistics of magically silencing an entire village to preserve my afternoon nap schedule.

“No. Definitely no. Absolutely not.”

“But the Master’s peace—”

“Minimalism is key here. You don’t silence everything, you silence strategically. The mountain, sure. The immediate area, fine. An entire village of innocent people? That’s the opposite of minimalism. That’s maximalism. Aggressive maximalism.”

She considers this, nodding slowly.

“Strategic silence versus total silence. Localized noise suppression to preserve specific zones while allowing peripheral sound generation to continue. The Master teaches restraint even in the application of power.”

“I’m teaching you not to terrorize villages.”

“Of course. Precision over excess. Quality over quantity.”

She smiles, soft and genuine, her cheeks actually coloring slightly.

“Your mercy knows no bounds.”

“It’s not mercy, it’s basic ethics—”

“I will maintain the silence protocols exclusively on the mountain, as the Master commands. No expansion of operations without explicit authorization.”

She bows, formal and deep, then retreats to her usual spot by the window to sharpen her knife.

I close the door and lean against it, wondering at what point my life became a series of increasingly unhinged damage control conversations.

Outside, the mountain is silent. Perfectly, artificially silent. Even the birds have learned to sing quieter, like they instinctively understand that noise is now a dangerous game.

I make tea and try not to think about the Royal Academy students limping back to the capital with stories about the dark hermit and his terrifying high priestess who deleted their ability to scream.

Tomorrow someone’s going to connect the dots. Tomorrow they’re going to send more people, stronger people, people who won’t run away.

Tomorrow.

But today my mountain is quiet and my tea is hot and my disciple is only threatening theoretical violence instead of actual violence.

I’ll call that a win.