The days that followed were ordinary.
Carts rolled in and out of the village. Children ran between houses. Tools struck stone in steady rhythm at the quarry. Smoke rose in thin lines at dusk.
No tremors came from the water.
No pressure pressed against the edge of the boundary.
Puddle drifted along the shallows each morning, its dark body barely disturbing the surface. The light around it shimmered softly, not as a warning, but as watchfulness. Rhys felt the link between them steady and calm.
Not alert.
Not strained.
Simply aware.
Caria kept the same patrol schedule. She did not reduce it. She did not increase it. She walked the line at dawn and again at sunset, noting small shifts in current, small changes in soil near the ridge.
There were changes.
There always were.
A stone out of place.
A patch of ground slightly softer than before.
A ripple that lingered a second too long.
None of it was hostile.
But none of it was ignored.
The villagers followed the same rule.
