The caravan door shuts behind Aris with a soft canvas hush.
Too soft.
I stay where I am for a second longer than necessary, hand still on the latch, listening to the shift in her breathing on the other side. Slower now. Not steady, but past the edge. That’s something.
I step back.
The Waystation is quiet in the way only neutral ground can be—no faction banners, no oath crests carved into the beams. Just travel-worn wood, reinforced axles, and sigils etched for balance instead of allegiance.
Still, my shoulders don’t ease.
Because the Concord Tribunal doesn’t respect neutral when it thinks divinity is on its side.
Orion stands ten paces off, watching the perimeter wards hum to life along the caravan line. His jaw is tight, posture rigid, like he’s bracing for a charge that hasn’t com
