Ten days after leaving Ravenflock Fort, the land finally began to change.
The air changed first.
The smell of wet roots and stagnant water slowly disappeared behind us.
In its place came salt.
Warm wind.
Open sky.
I did not realize how long it had been since I last saw a horizon that was not blocked by trees.
Caravan Master told us we would resupply at Roderick Port before turning north toward Yggdra.
When he mentioned the name, I glanced toward Ryn without thinking.
Roderick.
Her expression barely changed.
Calm as always.
I do not think she realizes I know her full name.
Or perhaps she does.
With Ryn, it is difficult to tell sometimes.
Caravan Master called this road the Roderick Trade Route.
One of the safer coastal paths used by merchants, caravans, fishermen, and travelers moving between southern settlements.
For the first time in a while, nobody in the caravan spoke as if we were heading toward danger.
It felt strange.
Not unpleasant.
Just unfamiliar.
By midday, we reached the Emerald Shore.
And for a moment, I genuinely thought the name had been exaggerated.
It was not.
The sand carried a faint green color beneath the sunlight.
Not bright.
Soft.
Like crushed emerald dust scattered beneath the sea wind.
When the waves rolled across the shore, the water reflected blue-green light so clear I could see small fish moving near the edges of the tide.
The ocean here did not feel violent.
It breathed.
Slowly.
The waves arrived in gentle rhythm against the shore, retreating with quiet foam between scattered shells and low rocks covered in bright green moss.
Palm trees leaned toward the sea under the wind.
Tall grass moved behind the shoreline like another ocean hidden beneath sunlight.
Even the sky looked larger here.
Cleaner.
As if the world itself had opened after weeks of narrow roads and dark water.
Near evening, we stopped at a place called The Singing Cliffs.
The cliffs themselves were not very tall.
Wide stone formations overlooking the sea.
But when the wind passed through the hollow gaps near the rocks, the sound mixed with the waves below.
Soft.
Distant.
Like voices singing somewhere far beneath the water.
Riverfolk lived there.
At first glance, they looked completely human.
But behind their ears were small gill slits that moved faintly whenever they breathed.
Most worked near the shoreline repairing nets, sorting fish, or cleaning small boats pulled onto the sand.
They sang while they worked.
Not formally.
Not beautifully in the way noble performers sing.
But naturally.
Like breathing.
One of them laughed after noticing me listening.
An older woman with silver beads tied into her dark hair.
She told me the cliffs were named after sirens long ago.
According to the story, sailors once believed voices beneath the cliffs belonged to women living under the sea.
Some said they sang travelers toward hidden reefs during storms.
Others believed the songs warned ships away from dangerous currents.
Nobody agreed whether the sirens were kind or cruel.
The Riverfolk woman only laughed when I asked which version was true.
“Depends who survived,” she said.
Fresh fish was shared with the caravan that night.
The smell of smoke and sea salt drifted through the camp while the sky slowly turned gold-green beneath the setting sun.
Somewhere near the cliffs, Riverfolk voices continued singing into the evening wind.
I listened to them for a long time.
Not because the songs were extraordinary.
But because they were not.
Nobody sounded afraid.
Nobody sounded exhausted.
The songs simply existed alongside the waves.
Quietly.
Naturally.
And for the first time since leaving Ravenflock, I realized my body was still waiting for something terrible to happen.
But nothing did.
Only the sea continued breathing beneath the cliffs.
And strangely enough…
I think I did too.
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