The rain had not stopped. It never quite did here.
A fine mist settled over the village streets, soft as breath, clinging to stone and moss and woven awnings. It wasn't enough to drive people inside. No, they moved through it like it was part of the air they breathed—umbrellas unnecessary, hoods pulled more out of habit than need. It was the kind of weather that made silence easier to bear.
Ravine stepped carefully through the narrow paths with Arana close beside her. The inn behind them had been quiet, the kind of place where words were rationed, and gazes weighed more than coin. Their room had been plain, but dry. Enough for rest. Enough to begin.
Now, the world waited.
Arana moved with purpose, but not haste. She always walked like she knew the land would open when it was ready.
Ravine, on the other hand, felt the ground shifting under her.
The Bloom lay heavy against her chest, tucked beneath her coat until now. With a slow breath, she reached in and pulled it free, letting the red moonstone catch the gray light.
Arana glanced at her, eyebrow arched.
"If anyone remembers," Ravine murmured, "this will help."
Arana didn't reply. She only nodded once.
They split their path subtly, Arana walking toward the market's edge, where old wood and drying herbs hung from open stalls. Ravine moved toward the centre, where clusters of people spoke in low tones over steaming cups and carefully stacked goods. The village was not small—but it was self-contained. A world with its own rhythm, quiet and slow.
No one called out to them.
But they watched.
Ravine could feel it. Not her face—not her presence.
The Bloom.
It caught eyes like a whisper spoken into a crowded room. Not everyone turned. But some did. Some glanced once, twice. Some furrowed brows. One older woman near a fruit stand stopped mid-conversation and stared. Not at her—at the pendant. At what it meant.
Ravine tightened her grip on her coat.
A man passed by without a word. A child tugged at his sleeve and pointed. The man hushed her and hurried on.
The silence was not empty.
It was layered. Measured. Thick.
She moved on.
She approached a stall with stacked parchment and carved brushes. An elderly woman sat beside it, sorting inkstones. Her eyes were pale with age, but sharp.
"Excuse me," Ravine said, voice careful. "I'm looking for someone."
The woman didn't look up.
Ravine produced the parchment slowly, unfolded it. It showed only the name and symbol—the formal registry marking from Solmere. The one linked to this region.
Still, the woman didn't look at it.
Instead, her eyes went to the Bloom.
Her gaze lingered there for a long time.
"I know someone," she said at last. Her voice was rough as old fabric. "I don't remember the name… but I know someone who wore that Bloom."
Ravine's breath caught.
She hadn't said it. The woman had.
A connection.
The woman's hands trembled slightly as she folded a cloth over the inkstones.
"It's not something you forget. That pendant. It was made by the stone weavers in the old style. They don't shape like that anymore."
Ravine nodded faintly.
Another woman approached, younger, with woven bands in her hair. She exchanged a look with the elder—one of caution, not fear. Then she turned to Ravine.
"You should speak to someone who remembers better. Follow me."
Ravine hesitated, but Arana had already begun to close the distance again.
The younger woman led them down a narrow path lined with wet slate. The trees leaned in slightly here. Moss bloomed on every surface, and the air smelled like old leaves and memory.
The woman didn't speak as they walked. She only cast glances—first at the Bloom, then at Ravine's face, as if trying to reconcile the two.
Finally, they reached a low building tucked between stone arches. A bell rang faintly as the door opened, though no one had touched it.
"Wait here," the woman said. She vanished inside.
Ravine stood in the drizzle. The Bloom rested like a weight over her chest.
Arana said nothing.
Ravine looked down.
The stone glinted softly, catching the overcast light.
Not a memory.
But something remembered.