The rhythm of Aethelburg was a living code, and Finnian was slowly learning to read it. He knew now that the baker's daughter, Elara, preferred her loaves to cool on the north-facing sill. He knew that the net-mender, Alton, was hardest to find on afternoons when the light was just right for fishing. He knew the specific creak of the mended bridge underfoot, a sound that had become a familiar note in the city's symphony.
He was no longer a student observing an alien culture. He was a novice practitioner, his actions becoming more intuitive, less calculated. The ledger in his mind had not vanished, but its columns had changed. One side was no longer labeled "Assets" and the other "Liabilities." Now, one column was "Given" and the other "Received." And he was learning that the goal was not a balanced sheet, but a continuous, flowing exchange that enriched all parties. The sums were never meant to be equal; they were meant to be *meaningful*.
