They walked until the ground softened again, stone surrendering to soil, soil to leaf-litter and fine grit. The descent wasn't steep, just persistent enough to remind the body that direction still existed even when purpose did not insist on it.
A bird crossed low and fast, cutting the air with a single sharp note before vanishing downslope. Puddle's head lifted, tracked the movement, then lowered again. Interest acknowledged. No chase required.
The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain that might come later—or might not. It didn't matter. Their pace didn't change.
Caria adjusted her pack strap, then let her hand fall away. "We're between things again," she said. Not uncertain. Observant.
Rhys nodded. "That's usually where the listening gets easier."
They passed a stand of young trees clustered around a fallen elder, roots tangled with old wood. New growth rising from decay without comment, without reverence. Just continuity doing what it did best.
