Two days passed.
The grove remained quiet. The small group packed slowly, without urgency. Caliste helped repair the wagon's axle. Mora showed the child how to sharpen a tool without cutting his thumb. In the mornings, mist clung to the grass until the sun lifted it. In the evenings, the stars returned—uncurated, imperfect, scattered like memory.
But peace, Caliste had learned, was not a lasting thing.
It was a pause.
And pauses always ended.
On the third evening, the rider came.
Dust cloaked his coat. His horse bore the lean look of distance. At first glance, there was nothing to mark him as different from any other traveler—no armor, no sigils. But Caliste saw it in his hands: the way they twitched slightly, like a man used to drawing steel. Not to fight.
To survive.
He dismounted without words.
Mora stepped forward, nodding with guarded calm. "Looking for shelter?"
The man's eyes flicked over the group—lingered on Caliste for a moment too long.
