The road does not disappear.
It becomes selective.
⸻
Zane learns this at dawn, when the eastern trade path still lies exactly where it always has, winding between low hills and scrub trees, packed firm by generations of feet and wheels.
Nothing blocks it.
No barricades.
No soldiers.
No banners.
And yet, nothing moves.
A caravan sits at the edge of the road like an animal that knows better than to step into a snare. Oxen stamp and snort, uneasy. Drivers argue in low voices. Someone has chalked a symbol onto a standing stone near the bend in the path.
A balanced scale.
Jason stands beside Zane, eyes narrowed.
“They didn’t close it,” he says.
Zane’s jaw tightens.
“They redefined it.”
⸻
A courier approaches from the caravan, hands raised in a placating gesture.
“They won’t let
