Aria’s POV
He came at dusk. Not with dust. With a limp.
Grey cloak, but frayed. No mark on his chest. He leaned on a staff instead of a blade. The same eyes that used to count Ridah’s squads, but older now. Tired in a way orders don’t allow.
He stopped where the Warden had sat and asked his question without a blade. Looked at the table. Knife still under the tree. Roots and blue cloth and stones circled it now. Bowls on the table. No steel out.
“Ridah,” he said. Not Commander. Just her name. Like he’d been holding it ten years.
Ridah didn’t stand. Didn’t salute. She shifted so her palm left the knife for one breath. Then put it back.
“Coren,” she said. Same way. Name, not rank.
Coren the mapmaker looked up. “Not me,” he said, but soft. Like he knew the difference.
The Warden
