Aria’s POV
He came with the current.
Not a Warden. Not a trader. Just a man with sun-brown skin, a cracked bowl tied to his belt, and a single mint leaf floating in a cupped hand.
He followed it upstream, leaf by leaf, until the river put him at our bank.
He didn’t ask for the chief. He didn’t ask for the ridge. He stopped where the mint touched water and said:
“Is this where peace begins?”
No one answered fast. Market rule. You don’t name a thing until you’ve sat with it.
Sen set a bowl for him. Empty. Filled it with water from where the mint grew.
“Drink where you sit,” she said.
“Then we’ll know if it began here, or if it began when you started walking.”
He drank. Closed his eyes. Tasted it.
“My village is three days downriver,” he said. “The water changed last week.
