The morning air tasted different.
Kael felt it with every breath as they walked—cool, sharp, alive. Behind him, the village faded into mist, its sounds replaced by wind and footsteps. No one spoke.
Twelve souls.
Each carrying only what was needed—no weapons, no tools of dominance. Just cloth, water, and memory.
Oran led with the staff, his pace even, his gaze sharp. Aila stayed near the middle, her eyes on the younger ones, watching every step. Kael took the rear, watching everything else—the horizon, the sky, the shifting earth.
They moved along the ridge trail, the same one that had brought them to the boy's cavern days ago.
But it felt longer now.
Not in distance.
In weight.
Every step echoed—not in sound, but in thought.
Midday came without notice.
The sun sat low, diffused by thin clouds. Kael called a halt beneath a tree twisted by age, its branches reaching out like questions.
Oran crouched, drawing symbols in the dirt. Not Spiral glyphs. Not their village marks.
