The stream announced itself just before it appeared—not with sound, but with temperature. The air cooled a degree, enough to notice. Ferns gathered where the ground dipped, their fronds dark and glossy, arranged as if someone had taken care without checking back.
Water slid through a narrow channel, quick but unhurried, stones worn smooth enough to hold light for a moment before letting it go. The bend the woman had mentioned was there, unmistakable once you weren't looking for it—a shift in the land that suggested choice without forcing it.
They crossed without stopping.
On the far bank, the path tightened again, lifting slightly, favoring the higher line as promised. The forest grew quieter, not emptied but redistributed. Sound traveled less here, caught in bark and needle and the soft architecture of leaves.
Caria adjusted the water skin at her side, then left it be. "They didn't ask where we were from."
"They didn't need to," Rhys said. "We arrived as ourselves."
