The morning tasted like stone warmed by promise.
Kael woke to voices he wasn't afraid of. Low, ordinary, clipped with sleep. The basin lay still as a held breath, the ring of offerings softened by dew. A breeze touched the water, changed its mind, and left.
He sat up. Across the camp, Oran already had clay on his forearms, sleeves pushed high, face set in the expression he reserved for talking to things that couldn't talk back—earth, fire, ideas.
Aila stretched, hair tied with a strip of reed. "You're going to pretend you slept," she said.
"I'm going to admit I don't know whether I did."
"That's closer."
Kael stood, felt the ground's cool agree to carry him another day, and walked to the cord knot near the first stones. He didn't move it. Not yet.
"Listen first," he said to the basin, and to himself. "Then lift."
—
