When the sun clears the hedges by a hand’s width, Marden calls the group together and goes over the route once more. They will take the south road first, then turn onto a smaller track to avoid a checkpoint. There is a shallow ford they should reach by afternoon, and a rise near a large oak where they will camp if they make good time. He speaks plainly and without warmth, as a man concerned only with moving goods rather than earning goodwill.

  When the group breaks apart, Aarav finds himself standing beside Seren awaiting instruction. They watch as the last canvas flap is pulled tight and tied off. The moment settles into quiet, and Seren looks thoughtful. He notices the change in her and reaches for something light to say.

  “See,” he says. “Not so bad. We will make good time and safer than walking on foot. If not a full belly, we won’t go hungry. Some songs at night to pass the time.”

  “You sound like you are used to travelling,” she says.

  “I have been known to move about.”

  “And the singing, is this normal when travelling?”

  “Morale,” he says. “It matters more than people admit.”

  She considers that. “I prefer the quiet.”

  “So do I,” he says. “But singing has its uses.”

  “Do you sing?”

  “When I need to,” he says, solemn. “Or when I am feeling brave and the night seems lonely.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “Then I spare everyone my awful singing.”

  The edge of her mouth softens. Not quite a smile but close. Then her attention shifts back to Marden and the warmth fades.

  “He looked at you like he was pricing cattle,” Aarav says, keeping his voice level. “Do not take it to heart. Men like him count everything. It is how they stay alive.”

  “I am not taking it to heart,” she says. “I am paying attention.”

  “As you should,” he replies. “It is a useful habit.”

  “Good. I have a lot to learn. The world is so different from the T… where I came from.”

  He meant it lightly, but it is good she understands the truth of it. The company is rough, and this is not a gentle arrangement. If the wrong sort decides to test their luck with a beautiful woman, things could turn quickly.

  The thought sends a brief flare of heat through his chest. It is irritating. It is unwelcome but still, it is there.

  He will protect her, and the power she brings him.

  Marden approaches with a nod that barely passes for courtesy. “Second wagon,” he says, “space enough if you do not mind cramped legs, help on the brake on hills, help with wheels when they stop, help with the fire at camp, and the healer will be kept busy if her hands are as good as she claimed.”

  Seren inclines her head. Aarav answers with a brief mocking two finger salute.

  Ivo steps close enough that his shadow falls across them. He says nothing. He just watches, steady and unblinking, like a man who has learned that trouble starts when people believe they are unseen. Aarav meets his gaze briefly and then looks away. There is nothing to be gained by pressing his luck against a man like Ivo. He looks like he eats rocks for breakfast and shits marbles.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Not long after, the wagons begin to move. Wood creaks as weight shifts. Harnesses tighten. Drivers click their tongues, and the mules lean into the pull. Aarav climbs onto the second wagon beside Seren and settles with his back against a crate. He draws his knees in to make room for a coil of rope as the road carries them forward, firm and rutted, every loose board rattling beneath the wheels.

  Dunlow slips away behind them. The light warms and makes the fields look softer than they are. Aarav watches the hedges pass and lets the sound of wheels and hooves steady his thoughts.

  He knows what he did with Calen. He knows why. That argument is settled. Still, Calen’s tired face and the calm way he delivered the warning has shifted something.

  The shame of his actions surfaces again.

  He lets it sit, because shame can wait. His Soul Fire cannot. Whatever Seren has ignited feels fragile, and for the first time in years he knows exactly what he is afraid of losing.

  There is work ahead, and the wagons are moving. For now, that is enough.

  He leans closer to Seren and talks about honey buns and a song he might sing if the night allows it. She listens without interrupting. The wagon keeps rolling, and the road carries them south.

  As the wagons settle into a steady pace, the countryside opens around them. The fields are wider here, broken by low stone walls and the occasional crooked tree. Leaves stir as the caravan passes. The road narrows and widens without pattern, patched and repaired by different hands over the years. Each change in its surface sends a slightly different sound through the wheels and up into the frame of the wagons.

  The smell of earth grows stronger as Dunlow fades from view. It gives way to grass, distant water, and a faint trace of woodsmoke from farms too far off to see.

  Seren shifts beside him on the wagon, adjusting her balance as it bumps through a shallow rut.

  “Does it always feel like this,” she asks, nodding toward the road ahead.

  “Like it might shake your teeth loose,” Aarav says. “Yes. That part never changes.”

  She exhales softly. “I thought travel would feel… cleaner.”

  “Only in stories,” he replies. “Real roads remember everyone who has used them and takes it out on the next traveller.”

  She considers that, eyes tracking the line of hedges sliding past. “You make it sound awful.”

  “It is,” he says. “So are the people on it. But the other option is to stay in one place, and that is something worse than the road.”

  They fall quiet again, the conversation having run its course, and the movement of the wagon carries them on for a time.

  Aarav watches Seren from the corner of his eye. She sits easily, even here, even now. There is nothing deliberate in it and nothing that asks to be noticed. She does not draw attention to herself. She is simply present.

  That unsettles him.

  Power usually announces itself. It grabs the attention of those around it. It demands it. Hers does neither. Whatever she carries remains contained, held close, and he can’t tell whether that is restraint or weakness. He doesn’t yet understand how she ignited the spark in him. He only knows that she did. That is a power beyond anything he has heard of.

  The connection between them feels thin, as if it could snap with the wrong movement or the wrong word. He tells himself that staying close is practical and necessary, that it is only for the power she gives him. The explanation settles quickly in his mind.

  Too quickly.

  Further up the line, one of the drivers calls back a warning about a dip ahead.

  “Hold on,” Aarav says.

  “Hold on to what?” Seren replies.

  “To anything,” as he grabs a nearby crate.

  Seren reaches over to grab the same crate, getting very close to Aarav in the small space.

  “Good,” he says. “I would hate to explain to Marden how we lost a healer to a dip in the road.”

  She gives a quiet, surprised laugh at that. It is short and gone almost as soon as it appears. Aarav notices how nice it sounds, like he notices everything else about her, about everything, not just her.

  The wagon dips suddenly as it crests a shallow rise. Seren shifts with the motion and bumps lightly against him before she can steady herself. It is brief, accidental, and gone just as quickly.

  The contact sends a small flare through his Soul Fire. Just a quick pulse of heat that rises and settles again before he can fully react to it. He draws a slow breath and keeps his posture easy, giving nothing away.

  The wagon levels out and rolls on, steady once more. The road stretches south ahead of them, opening mile by mile.