Aria’s POV
No bark came today.
No child followed a leaf.
The ridge just… breathed different.
Morning was slower. The mist didn’t lift all at once. It peeled back, one layer at a time, like someone deciding whether to stay.
Mint smelled stronger when the air was like that. Like the ridge was exhaling what it’d held under cloth and steel for years.
Nira swept the same circle of stones three times. Not because it was dirty. Because sweeping slow makes your hands remember peace.
“Market days start like this,” she said. “No one shouting. Just brooms and bowls. People come when the air feels safe.”
Tav didn’t carve. He watched the river. A leaf went past. Then another. Then none for a long time.
“Wood travels when it’s ready,” he said. “Not when we call it.”
Coren the mapmaker
