"There is an army," he told them. "It may not come here. Or it may pass close enough that the land will feel different."
"How different?" someone asked.
"Enough that you should listen when it tells you to move," Rhys replied.
No speeches. No promises of victory.
Only instructions: where to go if horns sounded in the night, which trails would remain open, which would not. Who to trust. What not to investigate, no matter how curious or convincing it seemed.
Caria worked in parallel, warding thresholds lightly—not barriers, but choices. Doors that would feel heavier if opened at the wrong time. Paths that subtly guided feet away from danger.
By dusk, the settlement had shifted without realizing it. Livestock closer in. Fires banked earlier. A collective readiness that had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with listening.
They left before gratitude could slow them.
The second town was larger. Harder.
