The path back was narrow but well-worn, pressed firm by years of steady use.
Caria walked slightly ahead, her steps unhurried. Rhys followed at an easy distance, his attention not fixed on anything in particular, yet missing nothing. The wind had shifted since morning. It carried the scent of damp soil and woodsmoke, and something else beneath it—faint, metallic, almost sweet.
He did not speak of it.
At the edge of the village, children were gathering buckets from the well, their laughter rising and falling in uneven bursts. An older man adjusted the latch on a storage shed, testing it twice before seeming satisfied. Two apprentices argued softly over the correct way to stack drying reeds.
Ordinary things.
Necessary things.
Caria paused near the square, watching a woman struggle with a stubborn cart wheel.
"It's catching on the axle," Rhys said quietly.
The woman glanced up. "I thought so."
