Caria smiled at the child's retreating laughter. "That went better than expected."
Rhys nodded. "Puddle has that effect. Either awe, or joy. Sometimes both."
They remained where they were, letting the village reveal itself in layers. A door creaked open and stayed that way. Someone hummed while sorting tools, the tune unfinished, unconcerned with being heard. Pots clinked. Footsteps crossed and recrossed the same stretch of packed earth, slowly wearing certainty into it.
A bowl appeared near their feet—set down without a word. Stew, thick and fragrant, steam rising in patient spirals. Not an offering, exactly. More a fact of proximity.
Caria glanced around, then accepted it with a quiet nod. "That's how trust starts," she said. "Not with questions."
"With assumptions," Rhys replied. "The good kind."
