Puddle slowed without being told.
Its broad head lifted, nostrils flaring once as it tasted the air—not scent alone, but intention. The low grass rippled around its legs as it came to a careful stop, body angled not toward threat, but toward space. As if already making room for what might happen.
Rhys and Caria exchanged a glance. No words.
They eased forward together.
Beyond the bend, the path widened into a shallow hollow where the land dipped and then rose again. An old stone culvert crossed it, half-collapsed, moss thick along its edges. Near it stood three figures.
Two adults. One younger.
The adults faced each other, close enough that neither could step away without conceding ground. Their voices were tight, brittle at the edges.
