Sage Barkley’s office was a quiet pocket of the world, the air still and warm, smelling of old paper and the faint, clean scent of the polished stone floor. He sat behind his broad desk, a ledger open before him, the numbers blurring into a testament of strain. Sixteen new arrivals in four days. All water-aligned. The influx had begun almost the moment Arianda’s group had left Zarinthar. He ran a hand over his nearly bald head, the skin there tight with tension.

Zudrok lay coiled in his den, a mountain of scarred red scales, his slow breaths like the bellows of a distant forge. The elder dragon’s eyes were slits of molten gold, watching Sage. He didn’t need to speak aloud for Sage to feel the weight of his companion’s shared concern.

“Group trainings,” Sage murmured to the quiet room. The words tasted like failure. Wardens were stretched thin, their careful, individualized instruction replaced by broader lessons. It was necessary. It was also dangerous. Raw power, arriving frightened and disoriented, needed a gentle hand. He feared what a clumsy hand might create.

The knock on his door was soft, but it carried a specific rhythm—urgent, but controlled. A warden’s knock. “Enter.”

A worn man in atire made for crossing massive amounts of land stepped inside, breathing heavily as if he pushed through days of travel in mere hours. He held a small, folded square of parchment. “Message from the Karthos relay, it just arrived.”

Sage took it, the paper crisp. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the brief, coded lines. His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. *Sighting in Karthos spice market. Assailant bearing counterfeit dragon symbol engaged a wind-water dual manipulator. Confirmed visual on companion: silver scales.*

The parchment made no sound as it settled back onto the desk. Karthos. Swan. And the silver dragon—Zariel, exposed. The peril he had quietly feared was no longer abstract. It was here, in ink and fact.

“Sixteen new souls,” Sage said, his voice low. “And now this. It is not a coincidence, Zudrok.”

The dragon shifted, a deep, grating sound of scale on stone that vibrated through the floor. *The threads pull tight,* Zudrok’s voice resonated in Sage’s mind, ancient and weary. *But the silver thread is young. Thin.*

Arianda. The image of her came unbidden—her fierce concentration during training, the way she’d adapted mid-spar with Simon, turning defense into a clumsy but effective offense. Zero combat experience, yet she learned like she was drinking from a storm. And that mind, sharp and questioning. She had looked at him, in this very room mere days ago, and asked about the nature of their protection. She had seen the crack in the wall.

“That little girl,” Sage whispered. He was supposed to stay. He was one of the Eight. His place was here, a steady pillar for the new arrivals, for the kingdom. Protocol was clear. But protocol was written for predictable threats.

This was a hemorrhage. A targeting of the specific, rare hope he had just sent into the world. A four-element adept with a silver dragon. The loss would not just be a personal grief; he believed it would be a wound in the world’s fabric.

He looked at Leo. “Assemble the senior wardens. In the courtyard. Now.”

Leo hesitated for only a heartbeat, reading the finality in Sage’s eyes. He nodded once, sharply, and left.

Sage stood, his bones protesting the swift movement. He took his staff from where it leaned against the desk, the familiar weight a comfort. “I cannot watch from this tower, old friend. Not while that thread is in the wind.”

Zudrok uncoiled, rising to his full, imposing height, his horned head nearly brushing the vaulted ceiling. *I go where you go. The kingdom’s heart is not stone and mortar. It is its people. She is one of ours.*

The courtyard was bathed in the cool light of the twin moons. A dozen senior wardens stood in a loose circle, their faces etched with curiosity and concern. Sage did not keep them waiting.

“A direct threat has been confirmed against one of our recent emissary groups,” he said, his calm voice carrying across the space. “The situation in Karthos has escalated. My presence is required beyond our walls.”

A murmur rippled through them. An Elder leaving was unheard of during an influx.

“During my absence, authority for daily governance and newcomer integration falls to a temporary steward.” Sage’s gaze swept the circle, landing on a woman with serene, watchful eyes and hands that seemed always ready to mend. “Lance . You will hold this place.”

The healer who had tended to Kira’s shock and burns blinked, his composure faltering for a single second. Then he inclined his head, not in submission, but in acceptance. “The keep will continue as always, Elder Barkley.”

“See that it is,” Sage said. He looked at them all, these protectors. “The arrivals are scared. They are powerful. Be their calm. Lance’s word is mine.” He turned, staff tapping on the flagstones. “I leave within the hour.”

Zudrok was already waiting at the plaza’s edge, where the air shimmered with latent portal magic. Sage placed a hand on the warm, rough scales of his companion’s foreleg. He did not look back at the towers of his home. He looked ahead, into the shimmering veil, toward a spice-scented city and a girl with a dragon. Zudrok Leaned down, his left leg extended as a foothold for Sage. Sage climbs up onto his back. A quick tap on Zudroks scales let him know that Sage was ready.

Zudrok spread his massive wings and began a steady climb, each powerful beat lifting them from the ground with controlled ease.

Sage gave one final look to Zarinthar before turning his gaze forward, his focus fixed on securing the future of his world—the same world he had once arrived in as a stranger, and endured through hardship and loss.

His breath steadied as they rose, the motion familiar beneath him. This was not new. This was not uncertain.

It was simply the path ahead.

The caravan pushed through the deepening twilight for two solid hours before Diego called a halt. They made camp in a shallow, rocky basin, the wagons forming a loose defensive ring. Arianda moved through the familiar motions of setting her bedroll, her hands steady but her mind a frantic, circling thing. She kept seeing the alley, the robed man’s eyes locking onto Zariel’s exposed scales. Her own helplessness was a sour taste in the back of her throat.

Leo was never far, a solid, quiet presence. His dragon, Sigma—a stocky creature with scales the color of cooled lava—had settled beside Zariel, the two whelps sharing a watchful silence. Leo didn’t speak. He just was there, his broad shoulders a barrier between her and the vast, darkening plain. It helped, a little. It made the panic a low hum instead of a scream.

Simon noticed. He always did. He finished tamping down the earth for his own spot, then moved to her side, bumping his shoulder against hers. “You’re doing that thing,” he said, his voice low.

“What thing?” Arianda didn’t look at him. She was tracing the stitching on her bedroll, committing each thread to memory.

“The thinking thing where you stop blinking and your face goes all… still.” He waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Earth to Arianda. Come in, Arianda.”

“I’m focusing, and technically we aren’t on Earth Simon,” she said, the words tight.

“On what? Your impending doom? Super helpful.” Before she could retort, his hands came up and covered her eyes. The world went dark. “Okay. What’s the last thing you saw? Right before I did that. Specifics.”

She stiffened. “Simon—”

“Specifics. Not ‘the camp.’ What, exactly?”

Anger, clean and sharp, cut through the dread. She slapped his hands away, blinking in the firelight. “Balor was checking the wagon axle on the far side. Serena was braiding Azure’s mane. The left rear wheel of the medical cart has a new crack in the rim. Happy?”

Simon grinned, that wide, crooked smile. “See? You were focusing. Just on the wrong stuff. Now you’re focusing on how much you want to punch me. Better, right?”

It was, infuriatingly. The helpless coil in her chest had loosened, replaced by a more manageable frustration. She huffed, turning away from him, and her gaze landed on Leo, who was sharpening a stick with a small knife. “Does he ever stop being… vigilant?”

Leo heard her. He looked up, his expression serious. “Not out here. Coach used to say, ‘Awareness isn’t a switch, Holt. It’s the floor you stand on.’” He went back to whittling. “Lost the state championship because I got distracted by some trash talk. Never again.”

“State championship? In what?” Arianda asked, settling onto her bedroll, drawing her knees up.

“Wrestling, Middle school, back in El Paso. Was gonna try and go for olympics in the future.” He said it plainly, no pride, just fact. “Almost made it to finals this year. Pinned the guy in the semis in like forty seconds. Felt unstoppable.”

Arianda managed a small smile. “So you were the jock.”

Leo actually laughed, a short, surprised sound. “Man, I don’t think middle schoolers call themselves jocks. We were just kids trying not to get our faces smashed in.”

Simon plopped down beside Arianda. “Please. You totally had a letterman jacket and everything. Probably had a fan club.”

“Had a jacket. No club.” Leo shrugged. “Mostly just had a lot of laundry. And a perpetually sore neck.”

Kira wandered over, Raltz at his heels. The red dragon whelp sniffed at Sigma, who grunted but didn’t move. “Wrestling is a structured contest of leverage and technique,” Kira stated, as if reading from a manual. “Superior positioning negates superior strength.”

“Tell that to the two-hundred-pound guy from Midland,” Leo said, a ghost of a smile on his face. “He didn’t get the memo.”

Lilith joined them, sitting quietly beside Kira. Moss curled into her lap, emitting a soft, frosty breath. “My brother fenced,” she offered. “It’s all about distance, he said. Not letting them get close.”

“See?” Simon said, nudging Arianda again. “Distraction. Conversation. Beats spiraling.”

For a while, it did. They talked about meaningless things—school sports, terrible cafeteria food, the weird habits of teachers. The fire crackled, and the night watch shifted at the perimeter. The ordinary words built a fragile wall against the dark.

But the question was still there, waiting in the quiet between sentences. Arianda looked at her hands, then at Zariel, whose silver scales reflected the flame-light. “How do you get stronger?” she asked, the words slipping out into the lull. “Not just… physically. How do you make sure you’re ready?”

The light mood evaporated. Leo stopped whittling. Simon’s playful grin faded.

“You train until it’s muscle memory,” Leo said after a moment. “So when the panic hits, your body already knows what to do.”

“You analyze the threat before it’s a threat,” Kira added, his blue eyes sharp. “Patterns. Weaknesses.”

Lilith stroked Moss’s head. “You trust the people next to you.”

Arianda absorbed their answers, each one a piece of a puzzle she couldn’t quite assemble. She had none of that. Sure her training at Zarinthar gave her minor muscle memory, and a slight tactical mind thanks to sherief. The trust she felt was tangled with a fear of getting them all hurt. She just had a desperate, clawing need to not be the one who was seen, targeted, helpless ever again.

Simon watched her face. He didn’t offer another easy answer. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows, looking up at the emerging stars. “You just keep getting back up,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “However you can.”

Diego’s form passed between them and the fire, a silent silhouette checking the perimeter. He paused, his silver eyes catching the light as he glanced at their huddled group. He gave a single, slow nod—an acknowledgment, not an interruption—and moved on, Sebastian a pale shadow at his side. The message was clear: the night was long, and vigilance was the floor they all stood on. Rest now, because tomorrow demanded more.

The knife came down. Arianda saw it in the slow, crystalline detail—the chipped edge of the blade, the man’s snarling mouth, Salem’s green form a blur of motion between them. She was frozen, watching. Helpless. Again. A scream built in her throat, silent and useless.

Never again.

The thought was a spark that caught. It burned through the paralysis. She lunged forward, past Salem’s defensive stance, her own hand shooting out desperately to intercept the descending steel. Her fingers brushed cold metal. The world shuddered.

“You cannot change the events of the past.”

The voice was calm. Straightforward. It came from everywhere and nowhere, cutting through the dreams chaos. It held no fear, only a steady, immovable certainty.

Arianda stared into the shifting shadows where the voice seemed to originate. “Who are you?”

A pause. The dream-stillness deepened, the frozen attacker, the suspended knife, all fading to a gray haze. “But take this lesson to heart,” the voice continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “and you will be able to shine in the future.”

“What lesson?” she pleaded, straining to hear. The voice was receding, pulling away like a tide. She caught only fragments, the words thin and stretched. “…resolve… the quieting…”

Then it was gone. The gray haze dissolved into the deep velvet of sleep, and she was falling.

Arianda’s eyes snapped open. She was on her bedroll, the rough wool scratchy against her cheek. The campfire was embers. Simon snored softly a few feet away, one arm thrown over Raphaela. Leo sat silhouetted against the star-dusted sky, still sharpening that stick. The watch had changed.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. The dream-vision clung to her, more real than memory. *Resolve the quieting.* The phrase echoed in the new silence of her mind. It wasn’t a question. It was an instruction.

She sat up slowly, wrapping her arms around her knees. Zariel stirred beside her, a warm weight against her leg. His golden eyes opened, reflecting the faint glow of the coals. *You are troubled.* His thought was a soft brush against her consciousness.

“A dream,” she whispered back, the sound barely leaving her lips. “A voice.”

*A voice? What did it say?* Zariel’s head lifted.

“Resolve the quieting.” She replayed the calm, absolute tone. It hadn’t been afraid of the knife, or the man. It had only cared about the lesson. About the future. She looked down at her hand, the one that had reached for the blade. She flexed her fingers. The helpless coil from earlier was gone. In its place was a cold, clear resolve. She couldn’t change what happened. But she could change what happened next.

“Can’t sleep?”

Arianda jumped. Swan was sitting a short distance away, her back against a wagon wheel, a blanket around her shoulders. Salem was a dark, alert lump at her feet. Arianda hadn’t seen her there.

“Bad dream,” Arianda admitted.

Swan nodded, her silver curls catching stray strands of moonlight. “The mind practices what the body fears. It is trying to prepare you.”

“It gave me advice.” The words felt strange to say aloud. “A voice did.”

Swan’s gaze sharpened. She studied Arianda for a long moment. “The world is old, and full of echoes. Some are meant to be heard.” She didn’t ask what the voice said. She simply waited, her green eyes patient.

Arianda traced the stitching on her bedroll again, but now the motion was thoughtful, not frantic. “It said to resolve the quieting.”

Swan went very still. Even Salem’s ears stopped twitching. The night sounds—the chirp of insects, the distant call of a night bird—seemed to hush. “Did it,” Swan said softly. It wasn’t a question. She looked away, toward the eastern horizon where the sky was still utterly dark. “That is a large task for a dream.”

“Is it why we’re here?” Arianda pressed. “You and Diego? Is that what you’re really looking for?”

Swan’s smile was gentle, but tinged with a profound weariness. “We are looking for many things, child. Answers often come tangled together.” She pulled her blanket tighter. “A quest to resolve the quieting… it is not a path. It is the ocean. And we are looking for a single drop of water. But before we can focus solely on that, we must fix the tides of war that infest this plane.”

The metaphor should have felt overwhelming. Instead, it settled something in Arianda. An ocean was made of drops. You started with one. She looked at Swan, really looked at her—the similarity in the curve of her jaw, the shape of her eyes that Arianda had only recently noticed. “You’ll teach me,” Arianda stated, the dream’s certainty bleeding into her voice. “Not just healing. How to not hesitate.”

Swan met her gaze. The gentle caretaker was still there, but beneath it, Arianda saw the ancient combatant from the alley, the one who had summoned ice and wind without blinking. “No,” Swan said simply. “When the camp stirs. You will train with Christofer.”

Arianda lay back down. The dread was still a presence, a cold stone in her gut, but it had edges now. It was a thing she could pick up, examine, and set aside. She focused on her breathing, as Swan suggested. In. Out. In the space between, she listened. Not for a mysterious voice, but for the quiet resolve forming in her own chest, solid and sharp as a blade.

A circle had been cleared in the packed dirt just beyond the wagons. The firelight from the camp cast long, shifting shadows across the ground, heat lingering in the air.

Christofer stood at the edge, arms folded. “Again.”

Arianda exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders. Heat flickered faintly along her fingertips—unsteady, but present.

Across from her, Leo stood loose, balanced, watching her—not her hands, not the flame. Her.

That bothered her more than anything.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I’m not the one you should be worried about,” she replied.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “I’m not.”

Fire sparked to life in her palm—not large, but sharp—and she drove forward, shaping it into a quick, snapping arc toward his shoulder.

Leo shifted. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… enough.

The flame passed through empty space. His hand caught her wrist—not hard, just redirecting—and her momentum carried her past him. A small push at her shoulder sent her off balance.

She stumbled, catching herself before she hit the ground.

“Too narrow,” Leo said. “You’re aiming for where I am.”

She turned sharply. “That’s the idea.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Again,” Christofer said.

Second round. She adjusted. The fire came faster this time, spreading wider—less precise, more coverage. She pushed heat outward, forcing space instead of targeting.

Leo nodded once. “Better.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Just waiting to see if you follow through.”

She stepped in again, flame shifting—and missed the shift in his weight.

He moved inside her range. A light tap to her side.

“Dead.”

She exhaled through her nose, not snapping this time. Just… taking it in.

“You didn’t move fast,” she muttered.

“No,” Leo said. “You just didn’t see when I started.”

That lingered. Third round. She didn’t attack immediately. Instead, she watched. Not his hands. Not his shoulders. His feet. The way his weight settled. The slight shift before he moved.

Fire flickered low in her palm, controlled, waiting.

Leo tilted his head slightly. “There you go.”

“Don’t get comfortable,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She moved. Fire surged forward—but this time she wasn’t chasing him. She pushed heat outward, forcing him to react. He stepped.

There.

She saw it. Late—but she saw it. She followed—but not fast enough. He redirected her again, a smoother motion this time, guiding her past him. She caught herself before falling.

Not a loss but not a win. But to Arianda, this was it, she was getting closer. A small pang of excitement slammed into the cage of her heart.

Leo glanced at her. “You’re starting to see it.”

“Starting,” she echoed.

Fourth round.

Something had shifted. The fire in her hands felt different—not bigger, not stronger—but sharper. More immediate. Less… careful. She didn’t wait. Didn’t plan. She moved on instinct. Flame snapped outward—not as a strike, but as pressure, forcing space, forcing reaction.

Leo adjusted— And she watched. Her eyes searching for that ever elusive step. There! She catches the sudden shift, and leaps on it. No hesitation, the excitement palpable to her own awareness. She drove forward.

The movement wasn’t clean. It wasn’t controlled. But it was committed.

Leo moved to counter—and she was already inside his guard. Air displaced hard at his center as she stepped through him, fire collapsing inward instead of outward, disrupting his balance instead of chasing him.

They tumbled onto the ground, dust rising the impact making a solid thud. Arianda's mind only thinking of how she had succeeded, she got him! Her heart Pounding like a track star down the race track so hard it drowned all other thoughts. For a second, she just stared.

“I saw it,” she said, almost disbelieving. “I saw it before you moved.”

Leo let out a short breath, somewhere between impressed and surprised. “Yeah… you did.”

Something surged through her. The emotional turmoil from the day before, the thought of possibly losing Swan, the feeling of being helpless, the anger at not being able to move forward, the relief of overcoming Leo's defenses. It all slammed into her at once all of it overwhelming her every though. She moved before she understood that she was moving.

She leaned down and kissed him.

It was sudden, completely unexpected, the feel of his lips on hers, it was alien, complete and total release of pressure. She lost herself in the moment and when her mind caught up—

And then she pulled back just as fast, eyes widening.

Leo blinked up at her, clearly caught off guard for once. “…Okay,” he said after a beat. “That one’s new.”

Arianda let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh, pushing herself off him and standing. “Don’t get used to it.”

Leo sat up, shaking his head slightly, a grin creeping in despite himself. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

At the edge of the circle, Christofer hadn’t moved. His gaze shifted between them once. Assessing.

“Again,” he said.

Arianda stepped forward immediately.

“Hold up.

Simon’s voice cut in, sharp and clear from the edge of the training circle.

Arianda stopped, her hands still half-raised, fire flickering out. She didn’t turn yet. The dust from her takedown of Leo still hung in the morning air between them.

“What was that?” Simon asked. His tone was flat, stripped of its usual playful edge.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice low. She kept her eyes on Leo, who was pushing himself up from the ground, his grin now careful and watchful.

Simon let out a short, controlled breath. Arianda could feel his gaze shifting between her and Leo, a physical weight on the back of her neck.

“…Right.”

A beat of silence stretched, filled only by the distant sounds of the waking caravan.

Then—

“If that’s all it takes to get a kiss,” Simon said, a faint, brittle edge creeping into his voice, “sign me up.”

The words landed like a stone in still water. Arianda turned slowly. Her face wasn’t amused. It wasn’t flustered. It was just… thrown. The cold resolve from her dream and the hot triumph from the fight collided, leaving her expression tight and unreadable.

“That’s not—” she started, then stopped. Because she didn’t have an answer. The kiss had been pure impulse, a pressure valve releasing. To explain it felt impossible. Her expression tightened further. “It’s not like that.”

Simon tilted his head slightly, his brown eyes fixed on hers. “Then what is it like?”

She hesitated—just for a second—and that was enough. The pause betrayed her. It made the moment a thing to be examined, a choice to be justified.

“I don’t know,” she said again, sharper this time, a defensive blade unsheathed.

That landed differently. Simon studied her, the last remnants of performative humor fading from his face, leaving something quieter and more serious underneath. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “I figured.”

“Again,” Christofer called from the sidelines, his voice a neutral command that sliced through the tension.

Arianda turned away from Simon immediately, her focus snapping back to Leo as if pulled by a wire. She fell into her ready stance, feet planted, hands up. But her breath felt uneven. The cage around her heart, which had briefly sprung open in victory, felt like it was tightening again, this time with a different, more complicated pressure.

Leo watched her, his earlier grin gone. He gave her a slow, acknowledging nod—not about the kiss, but about the fight. About the read she’d made. He mirrored her stance, ready.

She moved. Fire leapt from her palms, but it was wilder this time, less precise. She pushed forward, but her timing was off. Leo sidestepped smoothly, redirecting her momentum with a gentle press of air that sent her stumbling past.

She caught herself, gritting her teeth. *Focus*, she thought. But Simon’s words echoed. *What was that?* She shook her head, as if to physically dislodge them.

“Your eyes are here,” Leo said, tapping his own temple. “Not back there.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. She forced herself to watch his feet, the set of his shoulders. But her awareness was split now. Part of her was tracking Leo’s subtle weight shifts. The other part was painfully conscious of Simon’s presence at the edge of her vision, a silent, unanswered question.

She attacked again. This time, she didn’t try to force an opening. She feinted high with a whip of fire, then dropped low, aiming a sweep of condensed air at his ankles. It was a combination Serena had drilled into her—water’s adaptability, applied with air’s speed.

Leo hopped over it, but she saw the slight adjustment in his landing. She was already surging upward, aiming a closed-fist strike at his center, fire wrapped tight around her knuckles to minimize the burn.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not crushing. For a second, they were locked, close enough for her to see the faint scar through his eyebrow, the earnest concentration in his eyes. There was no teasing in his look now. Just assessment.

“Better,” he grunted. “But you’re forcing the finish. You saw the adjustment. That’s gold. But you rushed the trade.” He released her wrist.

The space between. Swan’s words from before dawn returned to her. *The space between thought and action.* That was where hesitation lived. But also, she realized, where intention was born. Her kiss hadn’t come from that space. It had bypassed it entirely.

She stepped back, nodding again, her breath beginning to even out. The dual awareness—of the fight and of the unresolved tension with Simon—didn’t leave, but she let them coexist. She let the discomfort be there, a sharp stone in her shoe, and kept moving.

For the next several exchanges, she did not try to take Leo down. She focused only on seeing. On reading the minute telegraphing in his body before a move. On that breath in the space between. She defended, redirected, and retreated, a dance of observation.

At the edge of the circle, Simon didn’t leave. He crossed his arms and watched, his expression unreadable. Raphaela, his red dragon whelp, nudged his shoulder with her snout, but he didn’t look.

Finally, Christofer called a halt. “Enough. You’re thinking again. But now you’re thinking about thinking. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

Arianda let her hands fall, the residual heat around them dissipating into the cool morning air. Her body hummed with fatigue and unused adrenaline. Leo gave her a final nod and turned to join Christofer, who was already speaking to him in low tones.

She was left standing alone in the center of the trampled earth. Slowly, she turned. Simon was still there, watching her. The camp was fully awake now, the smell of porridge and woodsmoke beginning to drift. The ordinary sounds of the caravan—voices, clattering cookware, the creak of wagons—felt suddenly loud and intrusive.

She walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. She didn’t know what to say. *I’m sorry* felt wrong. *It meant nothing* was a lie. The truth was a tangled knot she couldn’t unravel.

Simon spoke first. He uncrossed his arms, his posture loosening into something more familiar, though the usual easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You knocked him on his ass,” he said, jerking his chin toward where Leo had been. “That was actually pretty cool.”

It was an offering. A way back to neutral ground.

Arianda felt a small, grateful ache in her chest. She took the offering. “I saw his step,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” Simon scuffed the dirt with his boot. “Look… forget I said anything. It’s none of my business.”

But the way he said it—the quiet resignation in his voice—told her it was very much his business. And somehow, that made it hers, too.

“Lets just grab some lunch.”

Arianda opened her mouth to reply. Nothing came. She exhaled quietly instead and stepped in beside him.

They joined the others for the midday meal, the rhythm of the caravan settling back in around them.