The ground no longer resists us.
It holds.
Soft in a way that does not demand attention—
only acceptance.
The stone has given way entirely now.
In its place—
soil.
Dark.
Uneven.
Alive in a way I do not yet understand.
There is a scent to it.
Earth.
Wood.
Something that settles rather than lingers.
And beneath it—
something warmer.
Faint at first.
Then closer.
Food, I think.
Though not one I can name.
The trees began as a line.
Distant.
Unbroken.
Now they stand around us—
tall enough to quiet the sky.
The air moves differently here.
Not across,
but between.
Carrying sound with it.
Voices.
At first, I thought it memory.
Something returning out of habit.
But it remained.
Shifted.
Answered.
By the time we reached the edge of the path,
there were others.
Wagons.
Set in loose order.
Not arranged—
but accustomed to one another.
People moved between them
with the ease of repetition.
Not watching.
Not waiting.
Simply… continuing.
Some turned as we passed.
A nod.
A smile.
The Caravan Master was greeted more than once.
By name, though I could not catch it fully.
He answered without pause.
As though this place had always expected him.
Ryn was stopped briefly.
A hand raised.
A few words exchanged.
There was no tension in it.
Only recognition.
I was not spoken to.
But I was seen.
That, I think, was enough.
The sounds here do not hide.
Conversation overlaps without caution.
Laughter rises without restraint—
then settles just as easily.
It should feel familiar.
It does not.
Not entirely.
There is a sign near the entrance.
Wooden.
Worn at the edges.
A carving set into its face—
a goat,
its eyes obscured.
Beneath it, a name:
The Greenway Rest.
I slowed without meaning to.
Ryn had said we were heading to the Sleeping Goat Inn.
No one else hesitated.
No one looked twice.
The Caravan Master passed beneath it without acknowledgment.
Ryn followed.
The others did the same.
I did not ask.
The scent of food was stronger here.
Warm.
Inviting.
Still unfamiliar.
It did not feel like something meant to be understood.
Only accepted.
Inside, the shift was quieter.
Not less alive—
but contained.
Rooms were taken without discussion.
Keys exchanged.
Numbers given.
The cost, I overheard,
was not small.
It matched that of cities we have long since left behind.
No one argued.
Perhaps that, more than anything,
told me this place was not meant to be questioned.
The crew has begun to settle.
Not fully.
But enough.
Movements are slower now.
Voices lower.
Not from caution—
but from something closer to release.
The kind that follows strain
when the body has not yet decided
it is allowed to rest.
I can still feel the Crossing in them.
In myself.
But it no longer presses.
Only remains.
We will stay here for some time.
That much is clear.
Tomorrow, perhaps,
this place will feel more certain.
For now—
it answers us.
And I find that I do not yet know
what it is answering to.
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