It curved slightly as it descended, favoring neither speed nor resistance. Grass brushed their calves, still heavy with dew, leaving darkened traces that faded as quickly as they formed. The sun found gaps in the cloud cover and tested them—thin shafts of light that warmed skin without committing to heat.
They passed through a low hollow where sound gathered briefly, then dispersed again. A bird startled from the brush, wings cutting a clean arc through the air before vanishing upslope. Somewhere farther off, something larger moved—unseen, unconcerned with being known.
Puddle adjusted its course once, avoiding a patch of soft ground that would have taken more than it offered back. The choice was precise, unremarkable. The land accepted it.
Caria walked with her gaze loose, not fixed ahead or behind. "I think," she said after a time, "this is where paths forget they were ever named."
Rhys considered that. "Or remember," he said, "that they never needed to be."
