Aria’s POV
The blue cloth sank by evening.
No one pulled it. No one cut it. We just watched. Roots from the mint threaded through the weave, slow as breath. Soil drank it.
Water loosened it. By the time night came, the cloth was under the dirt again. Gone the way the knife was going. Gone the way names go when they’ve done their work.
Only mint showed above the ground now. Green and sharp and smelling like the ridge had forgiven something.
Ridah knelt where the circle of stones was. Pressed her palm to the earth.
“We covered scars with cloth,” she said.
“Now the ridge covers cloth with growth. That’s how you know it’s ready.”
Coren the Warden didn’t ask _Why?_ this time. He asked: “Will it come back up?”
“Only if we need it to,” Mara said. “Cloth remembers. But mint remembe
