Four days after leaving The Pearl Banks, we arrived at a region called The Golden Dunes and Grove.
I thought I had already become accustomed to the beauty of the southern coast.
Apparently not.
The scenery here overwhelmed me in a completely different way.
The Pearl Banks felt quiet.
Dreamlike.
Almost delicate.
But this place felt alive.
Warm.
Bright in a way that made everything else inside my thoughts feel distant for a little while.
The sand carried a deep golden color beneath the sunlight.
Not pale.
Not soft white like northern shores.
Gold.
When the sun lowered toward the horizon, the coastline looked almost molten beneath the waves.
Foam rolled gently across the shore in thin white lines while seabirds drifted overhead against an endless blue sky.
Behind the beach, the land slowly transformed into dense tropical grove.
Large-leafed trees swayed under the sea breeze beside flowering shrubs filled with soft pink, yellow, and pale violet colors.
The air smelled of salt, warm sand, and something sweet I could never fully identify.
Even the caravan felt different here.
Lighter.
The tension that had followed us since Ravenflock seemed to dissolve somewhere along the coast behind us.
The crew laughed more openly now.
One of them nearly fell asleep while repairing harness straps beneath a tree.
Even Caravan Master appeared slightly less guarded.
Only slightly.
But enough that I noticed it.
We eventually stopped near a place called the Ancient Banyan Circle.
Several enormous banyan trees had grown together over countless years, their roots twisting and merging into massive pillars surrounding an open center.
The roots rose above the earth like the remains of some ancient structure reclaimed by nature.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in slow-moving golden patterns across the ground.
Pieces of cloth and faded prayer cords had been tied around some of the roots by passing travelers.
The entire place felt old in a peaceful way.
Not abandoned.
Remembered.
Ryn later brought me to the Tidepool Market after the sea began to recede.
The market only existed during low tide.
Temporary cloth stalls appeared across shallow tidepools and exposed stone paths while merchants arranged goods beneath bright hanging fabrics that moved constantly in the wind.
Seasong Halfeet called greetings from nearly every direction.
Riverfolk cleaned fresh catches beside tidepools filled with trapped fish and sea stars.
Children ran barefoot through shallow water carrying woven baskets larger than themselves.
The entire market felt temporary.
Like something the ocean itself allowed for a few hours before reclaiming it again.
I ended up buying several small accessories without planning to.
Another shell ornament.
A woven bracelet.
A small hair ribbon decorated with tiny pearl fragments.
Ryn watched all of it with visible amusement.
“I was beginning to think you were secretly sixty years old,” she said.
“Turns out you’re just a normal young girl.”
I almost answered immediately.
And your family name is Roderick.
The words nearly left my mouth before stopping somewhere inside my throat.
I still do not understand why asking feels strangely difficult.
It is similar to how I feel around Caravan Master sometimes.
Not fear.
Just the quiet awareness that there are distances between people which cannot be crossed simply because curiosity exists.
Instead, I told her this year would be my twentieth.
Ryn looked genuinely surprised.
Then laughed softly beneath her breath.
“That explains some things,” she said.
I asked what exactly that meant.
She refused to answer.
Several traveling merchants greeted her while we walked through the market.
“Miss Roderick.”
Each time, Ryn simply smiled politely and gave a small nod before continuing forward beside me.
Nothing about her expression changed.
But hearing the name spoken aloud beside the ocean wind made it feel more real somehow.
As if the world around her suddenly connected into pieces I had only partially seen before.
By the time we returned to the Banyan Circle, sunset had already begun.
Golden light filtered through the massive roots while the sounds of the market slowly disappeared alongside the rising tide.
Campfires flickered beneath the trees.
Someone nearby played soft string music while travelers shared food beneath the hanging roots.
I sat there longer than necessary that night.
Listening to unfamiliar voices beneath the ancient trees.
My body no longer felt heavy.
The constant tightness inside my chest had loosened somewhere along the coast without me realizing it.
And perhaps the strangest part of all—
I no longer felt like I was simply enduring the journey.
For the first time in a long while,
I think I was genuinely enjoying it.
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