They walk on in silence as the road curves, fields opening on one side and a low hedgerow running along the other. He feels the urge to smooth things over with talk, something easy, and he looks at Seren.

  He knows exactly why he does it. Talking builds proximity. Proximity invites trust. Trust opens doors.

  “Did you enjoy the fruit?”

  She gives him a look that says she is not in the mood for talking. Still, she answers. “It was good. Better than the bread.”

  “Not in a talking mood?” he says.

  “I am not,” she replies. “I have never been much of a morning person.”

  “Morning people miss fewer meals,” he says. “And fewer knives.”

  “Is that experience talking?”

  “Always.”

  Another silence. Serens seems happy to just walk in silence but that won’t create a bridge of trust. He needs to go deeper. Find something that connects them.

  “Solmaris has good food,” he says. “In the markets they glaze sweet buns with honey and pile cream on them thick as your thumb. I once ate three in a row and spent the afternoon stretched out on a bench, complaining to the sky about how unfair it is that food bested me in a fight.”

  “A tragic tale,” she says. With just a hint of a smile.

  “A lesson learned,” he adds. “Or ignored.”

  “You do seem to favour the second.”

  “It has served me well enough.”

  “You are too kind to yourself.”

  He shrugs. “Someone had to be, and I couldn’t think of a better candidate than myself.”

  “You make it sound like a duty.”

  “It is,” he says, a little too earnestly. “If I do not speak well of myself, there is a long and uncomfortable silence where I might have to improve.”

  “Do you not think you should improve yourself?”

  He looks genuinely thoughtful for a moment. “How does one improve upon perfection? I spend a great deal of time looking in mirrors, you see, and I usually leave quite pleased to have spent such good time in great company.”

  She blinks. Then, “Arrogance is unbecoming.”

  “Ah,” he says lightly. “Many would call it confidence.”

  She tilts her head. “Others might call it an imperfection.”

  He smiles at that, unoffended. “I prefer to think of it as a decorative flaw. Adds character.”

  “You do seem to have a great many decorative flaws.”

  He laughs under his breath. “Each only adding to my greatness. People often hide what it is that makes them special.”

  “Is that so? Perhaps you are right, or perhaps you are the fool you seem.”

  “I would be offended,” he says, “but one of my decorative flaws is being oblivious to my own flaws.”

  She shakes her head, but there is warmth in it now. “You are impossible.”

  “So people tell me,” he replies easily. “Usually by people who just watched me do something impossible.”

  Seren doesn’t respond, just smiles.

  They walk on in silence. The air between them feels easier now, no longer drawn tight. When he glances at her, the smile is still there, small and unguarded. Her shoulders have loosened, her steps unhurried, and she does not seem ready to pull away at every sound.

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  He keeps pace beside her, and the road carries them forward together.

  The caravan waits where Calen said it would, just off the south road. It waits past a stand of alder where the track widens into a firm layby. Six wagons sit in a loose line, where people are still completing last minute checks. Four are covered with canvas pulled tight over bent frames, patched and marked from travel, two are open and loaded with crates, sacks, and bundles wrapped in oilcloth.

  Mules twitch at flies. Three horses graze at the verge, tails moving slowly. People move between the wagons without rush because they know the routine, the air thick with tar, rope, old grain, and boiled coffee. A kettle rattles on a brazier. Someone laughs loudly and a few others join in.

  Aarav studies their posture and the way they move as they pass. At first glance they look like traders, ordinary enough in dress and manner, but the wagons tell a more complicated story. The loads are mixed, some clean and neatly packed, others covered and handled with a care that suggests they are better left without names. It is the kind of caravan Calen could find anywhere a road meets water, practical, flexible, and not inclined to ask too many questions. Smugglers.

  By the first wagon stands a narrow faced man whose eyes sit a little too close together. His coat was once well made and now serves only its purpose, worn thin at the seams. A narrow beard traces the line of his mouth but stops short of his cheeks, as if he never quite finished the thought of growing it.

  Beside him stands a much larger man, thick armed and heavy through the neck, his sleeves rolled back to bare forearms crossed with old scars. He does not busy himself with the wagon or pretend to be occupied. He simply stands there, still and watchful, and allows his size to speak for him.

  The narrow faced man looks up as Aarav and Seren approach. His smile is quick and shallow.

  “You are Calen’s people,” he says in a nasally voice. “He mentioned you needed transport south. He said you know the work and can pull your weight?”

  “We can,” Aarav says, his own smile easier. “And we appreciate the company. The roads can be dangerous.”

  The man nods. “Appreciation is sensible. I am Marden. I decide what moves and when. This is Ivo. He does not do much thinking. He keeps people from being a problem. You won’t be a problem, will you?”

  Ivo does not acknowledge them. His eyes move over Aarav and settle on Seren, not lingering and not crude, just checking as if confirming a detail before moving on. Aarav does the same to them, the eyes of someone who is always watching for danger.

  Marden’s eyes drift to Seren and stay there a beat too long for Aarav’s liking. Seren meets the look without flinching. Polite and collected.

  “We won’t be a problem,” Seren replies.

  We can work,” Aarav says, stepping in to pull Marden’s attention back where it belongs. “Cook, clean, lift, mend what takes mending. I can handle a harness and wheels well enough, and if trouble turns up I can use a weapon.”

  “And how are you at following orders?” Marden asks.

  “When they make sense,” Aarav replies with a half joke. “We can follow orders just fine.”

  “She is no good with wheels,” Aarav continues, “but she is better than I am at plenty else.”

  Seren speaks then. Her voice stays level. “I can tend the sick and treat wounds.”

  “Temple work?” Marden asks.

  “Some of it,” Seren answers. “Not all.”

  Marden’s focus sharpens. “You can heal?”

  “I can tend wounds,” Seren says. Careful. “I have some training but I wouldn’t call myself a healer. I know enough to help.”

  Aarav notices the shift through the nearby workers, because people with old cuts, bad joints, and bones that never set right always hear that word. Healers are uncommon, not because they are legends but because learning takes time, structure, and teachers, all of which cost coin. Temple training is spoken of as service. In practice, it is priced. Healers come from money, from patronage, or from luck most people never see.

  Seren’s value rises in the space of a breath. Unfortunately, useful things are watched. Useful things are taken. Aarav adjusts his thinking at once. Losing her would mean losing whatever she stirred in him. That is not an outcome he is willing to accept.

  Marden rubs his jaw. “Useful,” he says. “Very useful.”

  Ivo does not react, but his stance adjusts slightly, enough to mark Seren as something worth protecting… or stealing.

  Marden gestures toward the wagons and lays out the rules. Anyone who joins works or leaves. Food is served at dawn and again at night, we travel in between. Watches are kept simple and shared. Mistakes are paid for in coin, and trouble is dealt with by Ivo.

  Towns are passed through or traded with as it suits the road. Those who slow the caravan are left by the ditch, and those who prove useful are rewarded. Payment comes in food, a wagon to ride in, and dry ground to sleep on. If nothing goes wrong, it will be three days south.

  Aarav nods his head and Seren does the same.

  “Good,” Marden says. “Keep out of trouble, we leave within the hour.” Then walks away with Ivo in tow.

  They stay clear of the work as the caravan comes together. The space around the wagons is busy, they step aside and sit in a quiet corner off to the side where they can see the wagons.

  From there, Aarav watches people pass. Men check straps and wheel pins. Canvas is pulled tight. Loads are shifted and settled. No one pays them much attention.

  Seren sits beside him. He is aware of her without looking at her.

  The spark in his chest feels different now. It hasn’t surged again, like their first meeting. It is not what it once was, but it has stopped fading. It holds steady, contained and quiet.

  He does not know whether that steadiness comes from being near her or whether this was always where it would settle. He considers leaving her to be sure, but the thought doesn’t last. The answer is not worth the risk of losing her.

  He stays where he is and watches the road that will take them south.