The canal north of Veythra narrowed into a green, slow-moving ribbon bordered by willow and old towpath stone. Lira’s party moved at a steady pace: Kael at point with a scavenged staff, Sera and Vesh side by side, Sela and Cal trading the slate and a small notebook, Lira in the center with the lens secured against her ribs. The spiral scars remained quiet, but the lattice stretched forward like a thin silver thread pulled toward Harth.
Travel loosened tongues. Kael appointed himself official commentator of every ruined lock and leaning warehouse they passed. “That one,” he said, pointing at a half-sunk barge, “is where I once spent three days guarding a single sphere that turned out to contain nothing but a man’s extreme disappointment with soup. Three days. I still hate soup.”
Cal laugh
