Rhys walked the boundary a little farther, not because he expected more to be wrong, but because walking it was part of knowing it. The field did not ask for oversight. It asked for familiarity.
Behind him, the rhythm of the village thickened.
Hammers found nails. A gate hinge received oil. Two voices rose in sharper contrast near the well, then softened as a third entered—not to decide, but to clarify what had actually been said.
Caria passed him carrying a coil of rope now neatly wound. She did not slow, but their shoulders brushed in passing—contact without interruption.
Puddle paused near a patch of disturbed earth where something had burrowed in the night. It lowered its surface slightly, sensing the hollow beneath. Not intrusion. Recognition. The soil settled of its own accord.
Above, clouds began assembling in loose formations—no threat yet, only possibility.
