Aria’s POV
Morning came with dust, not drums.
No Warden pulse. No hum from deep vein. Just dust on the wind. Fine, grey, wrong. The kind that used to mean boots in formation. Ten years, dust meant run. Today it just meant “someone’s coming”.
We were still at Sen’s fire. The knife was still on the table. Sheathed. Clothed. Unheld. Stew bowls empty. Keth’s wood had a circle carved halfway through.
Old Jorin saw it first. Squinted at the ridge line.
“Dust,” he said. No fear in it. Just fact. “From the north road. Not market feet.”
Sen stood. Didn’t grab a blade. There were none. She grabbed a wet cloth instead. Covered the fire. Smoke gone.
“Not hiding,” she said. “Just not announcing.”
Darian moved to the edge of camp. Not to fight. To see. His hands were empty. Tav’s carving
