The change of scenery did not happen all at once.
It revealed itself slowly, mile by mile, as though the world itself were easing its shoulders after a long-held breath.
The southern roads they left behind had been hard-packed and scarred, their edges marked by old trenches, abandoned watch posts, and villages that watched processions with careful restraint. Doors had opened, yes - but only just enough for eyes to peer through. Bows had been formal, precise, respectful in the way one might greet a storm one hoped would pass without incident.
Now, as they rode farther east, the land softened.
The soil grew darker, richer. Grass spread thick and unbroken across the hills, untrampled by marching armies. Trees stood in clustered groves rather than defensive lines, their branches heavy with leaves instead of stripped bare for firewood and fortifications. Streams ran openly beside the road, not hidden behind stonework or guarded crossings.
Aya noticed it before anyone spoke of it.
