It took him a while to spot it — the basin was big, the crowd fluid — but once he did, he couldn't unsee it.
A figure near the far edge of the plaza, standing where the shadow of the pyramid met the open light.
They were dressed like the others. Same painted cloth. Same spiral patterns on the arms.
But the paint didn't sit right. It smudged in places, thin in others, like it had been put on in a hurry.
And their stance — stiff, almost military — clashed against the fluid, rolling movements of the rest.
Ezra narrowed his eyes.
The person wasn't following the plaza's invisible choreography.
When the crowd turned their heads toward the pyramid, this one kept scanning.
Not the way a guard did — no authority in it.
More like someone trying to learn the place by watching.
His gut told him they didn't belong.
The smart thing would be to mark the location, pull back, and watch over a few days.
If they were like him — a stray, a survivor — they'd eventually make a mistake, leave a trail.
But something about the way they moved made that option feel thinner than it should.
They were already on edge.
If they bolted, he'd lose them.
Ezra scanned the basin's edges, mapping a route in his head.
Three switchbacks through the ridgeline. Drop into the treeline where the canopy covered the sightlines from the plaza.
Work his way in slow, keeping parallel to where they stood.
He slipped down from the ridge in a low crouch, letting the ridge's shadow swallow him.
The plaza noise — the chanting, the hollow drumbeats — dulled under the weight of the trees.
He kept the figure in sight, always through gaps in the crowd, never from an open angle.
They moved differently here, too.
Everyone else walked with that loose, swaying gait — a rhythm drilled into them by years of living in this place.
This one stepped like each stone might shift underfoot. Testing the ground. Calculating.
Ezra knew the walk.
He'd been doing it since he woke in the Trial.
The figure slipped into a side path between two low structures draped in woven reed mats.
Ezra followed, pausing at the entrance, letting his eyes adjust.
The air was cooler here, heavier. The noise from the plaza bled into a soft hum.
He saw the figure's back for half a heartbeat before they turned a corner.
Ezra followed, slow.
Each step was deliberate — toe down first to avoid snapping twigs, weight spread so the packed dirt didn't crunch.
He rounded the corner.
The street here was narrower, lined with carved posts and clay jars.
No one else in sight.
The figure was farther ahead now, moving faster, glancing back once — too quick to catch him unless they were already suspicious.
They ducked into another alley.
Ezra picked up speed.
If they reached the outer structures, he'd lose them in the forest fringe, and out there he couldn't risk a chase.
The alley tightened, then opened into a small courtyard.
They rounded a corner, faster now, glancing back just once — quick, but enough to register a shadow. Ezra saw the shift in their posture, the drop in their center of gravity.
They'd noticed him.
No more slow stalking. The alley funneled them into a small courtyard, hemmed in by reed-draped walls.
The figure spun before he even stepped inside.
A flash of movement — they closed the distance in a burst, swinging low with a kick aimed at his knee. Ezra caught it on his shin, twisting to deflect the follow-up punch, but the force still rattled his jaw.
He struck back — a palm to the chest, enough to send them skidding half a step.
They didn't run.
Another kick — sharper, snapping high toward his ribs — and he caught it with his forearm, grunting at the impact. Whoever this was, they weren't fighting like the locals. No swaying gait, no wild swings. This was measured. Tight. Controlled.
He ducked under a strike, feinted with his spear's haft, then pivoted — and there it was.
The stance.
The pivot on the back foot.
The way they reset after every exchange.
Not random. Not learned in the Trial.
This was academy work.
Ezra froze for half a second. Just enough for them to catch him with a knuckle-heel strike to the shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, but his mind was already moving faster than his body.
He blocked another strike, this time grabbing their wrist and twisting. The momentum pulled them half around, and the smudged paint caught the light. Pale skin beneath.
They turned sharply — and their eyes met.
It hit both of them at once.
Her brows lifted first in recognition, then narrowed with something like disbelief. His grip eased.
A flicker passed over her face — surprise first, then something else, smaller and harder to place. Her posture eased, just a fraction, like an invisible rope had been cut from her chest.
Ezra felt something pull at his mouth — the smallest curve of a smile.
It wasn't much, but it was the first time his face had done that in days.
He opened his mouth —
She raised a hand sharply. "Not here."
The words were low, clipped, barely audible under the hum of the market.
Before he could answer, her fingers caught his wrist.
Her grip was firmer than it should've been for someone looking that worn down.
She pulled him between two stalls, ducking under a line of drying hides, and into a narrow alley where the noise bled into the distance. The walls here were high and close, sunlight broken into thin slits.
"Keep your voice down," she said without looking back.
Then she moved deeper into the passage, still dragging him along.
Ezra didn't fight it.
Whatever this place was, if Rin looked this cautious…
Talking could wait.
They stopped only when the alley broke into a covered courtyard. The walls were higher here, the air cooler, shadows pooling in the corners.
Rin let go of his wrist. "You move too loud."
Ezra arched a brow. "You look like hell."
"Thanks." Her voice was dry, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Guess we both do."
Up close, she looked worse than he'd thought. The paint smeared across her temple wasn't decorative — it was covering a half-healed cut. Her arms were leaner, muscle still there but eaten into. Even her breathing was tight, like every inhale had to be measured.
"You look roughed up" he said.
"Because I don't waste my resonance unless I'm about to die," she said flatly.
"Food's scarce unless you're part of them. Water's worse. You heal, you burn through energy, you burn through energy, you need more food."
Ezra leaned against the wall, absorbing that. "So you've been here a while."
"Eight days, maybe nine. Hard to track." She shook her head. "The place… it doesn't follow rules. Days feel shorter, nights stretch. The people—" She glanced toward the alley entrance. "They're organised. Too organised. Patrols, routes, ritual checkpoints. You've seen them."
"I've been shadowing them for over a week," Ezra said.
"Then you've noticed the big trees they touch? The ones that glow?"
Ezra nodded.
"They're not just trees," Rin said, voice lower now. "They're… something else. I don't know what. They mark territory, or maybe keep it stable. Every loop they make, they stop at one. And I think—" She stopped herself, eyes flicking to the shadows again. "Doesn't matter. Not here."
Ezra frowned. "You think what?"
"I think they're connected to why we're still alive. And to the one they worship."
He caught that last part. "The one they worship?"
Rin's jaw tightened. "Later."
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of distant voices threading through the walls.
Ezra finally said, "You found a way in with them?"
"Not exactly. They tolerate me. I trade things they can use, keep my head down. That's how I've seen what I've seen."
"And what's that?"
Her eyes met his. "This isn't just a camp. It's a city. And it's older than the Trial itself."