The Crow stayed. It sat on Kael's shoulder as he packed his single bag in the dim light of the hut.
"Adam used to pack lighter," the Crow remarked. "He carried a star in a jar and called it a day. You're bringing a fishing knife?"
"It cuts," Kael replied.
"So does a breeze, if it's fast enough. But you... you're not fast. You're heavy."
Kael stopped. He felt his internal pulse. It wasn't a heartbeat; it was a rhythmic thud, like a forge hammer hitting an anvil. Physical Stage 3: Middle Stage. His skin felt like cured leather, his bones like cold-forged steel. In this "Thin World," he was a walking monolith.
He stepped out of the hut. His foot hit the dirt path, and a faint tremor rippled through the ground.
"Hide that," the Crow warned. "The 'Kings' of this age are fragile things. If they feel your weight, they'll try to tip the scales before you reach the gate."
Kael exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. He consciously "loosed" his muscles, allowing his presence to fade until he looked like nothing more than a silver-haired peasant with a wandering mind.
"Better," the Crow muttered. "Now, let's go see the ruins. The Hundred Schools are waking up, and they're hungry."