The cleansing ponds at Stone Creek became a somber pilgrimage site. There was no beauty in them, only function: a slow, green, and patient filtration of a past mistake. The water that finally trickled from the last pond was not celebrated, but monitored with a reverence once reserved for the springhouse itself. It was water that had been forgiven, and its return to the watershed felt like an absolution earned through grueling work.
The cooperation between Aethelburg and Stone Creek, forged in the fire of crisis, settled into a steady, warm glow. Trading caravans became more frequent, carrying not just goods, but news, techniques, and even jokes. The rhythmic *chunk* of stonework could sometimes be heard in Aethelburg, while the softer sounds of weaving and the scent of new herbs began to drift through the stone passages of Stone Creek. The confluence was no longer a project; it was a lived reality.
