Rhys noticed, faintly, that his senses were no longer scanning ahead.
They were present.
The habit of anticipation—of measuring distance to the next threshold, the next challenge—had loosened. In its place was a quieter orientation: responsiveness without vigilance. If something emerged, he would meet it. Until then, there was no need to prepare.
Caria adjusted her pace without comment, aligning not with him alone, but with the terrain itself. She did not look down to watch her steps, nor ahead to plot them. She moved as though the ground were already aware of her weight.
"This is different," she said at last—not breaking the quiet, but shaping it slightly.
Rhys did not ask how.
Difference no longer required contrast to be understood.
Puddle flowed beside them, its movement now carrying a subtle modulation—gentle rises and falls that echoed neither urgency nor inertia. It was not following. It was accompanying. And in that distinction, something essential had shifted.
