Sleep came gently.
Not forced.
Not guarded.
It settled over the hanging tents like a soft veil, smoothing the sharp edges of fear that had carried them through the river. Breath slowed. Muscles loosened. Even the most vigilant minds finally allowed themselves to drift, lulled by the steady certainty that nothing could reach them here.
The web tents swayed faintly with the night wind, suspended between branches like cocoons woven for survival rather than transformation. Below, the river murmured–present, distant, obedient. Above, the forest held its breath.
Golden Berry Beads did their work well.
Yang circulated smoothly, warmth spreading through limbs and chests, dulling exhaustion without clouding awareness. Dreams, when they came, were light and melodious–half-formed images that carried no weight. Familiar voices. Safe places. The kind of sleep earned only after danger has passed.
For the first time since leaving the mainland, no one feared closing their eyes.
