Aria’s POV
The knife changed before anyone came upriver.
We noticed at first light. The cloth over it was damp, but not from river mist. The roots Old Jorin said would learn from soil had found it.
Thin, white tendrils curled under the grey fabric. Not breaking the sheath. Just holding it. Like the ridge decided steel could rest and grow at the same time.
No one touched it. Not yet.
Mara knelt first. Put her palm on the stone beside it. Mint grew wild there now, same as at the quarry. But this mint had thinner leaves. Softer.
Like it learned gentleness from watching the knife not be used.
“It grows without asking,” she said. “Even next to what was made to cut.”
Ridah didn’t flinch. She set her hand over the cloth, over the roots. Didn’t pull. Didn’t command.
“We don’t forg
