Alignment didn't announce itself.
It arrived as a soft convergence—the way breath finds rhythm after exertion, or how two hands fall into step without looking. The ground ahead sloped gently downward, not inviting, not resistant. Just there.
They entered the meadow.
Grass brushed their calves, cool where shadow lingered, warm where sunlight slipped through the cloud cover. Insects lifted and settled again, adjusting their trajectories around the interruption without alarm. Puddle moved differently here—slower, head low, senses spread wide, not guarding but listening.
Halfway across, Rhys felt it first. Not danger. Not command.
Attention.
He stopped, raising a hand—not sharply, just enough. Caria halted at once, her posture shifting into stillness rather than readiness.
The air felt… denser. As if the space itself had paused to consider them.
