I am writing this ten days after we left the inn.
Ryn told me this morning
we are one day away from Ravenflock Fort.
The land has begun to change.
Not fully.
But enough to be noticed.
We stopped tonight at a place called Mistfern Hollow.
A shallow valley.
Surrounded by low hills.
There is a river here.
Slow.
Quiet.
Mist rests above it.
Even now.
The trees are different.
Tall ferns with pale leaves.
They move together when the wind passes.
The sound is soft.
Almost calming.
There are others here.
Travelers.
Caravans.
Firelight scattered across the hollow.
Voices carried through the mist.
I am sitting on a wooden crate.
Slightly apart.
But not far.
I can still see them.
There is food here.
Warm.
A bowl in my hands.
The heat lingers longer than I expect.
Steam rises slowly.
Carrying the scent with it.
Meat.
Root vegetables.
Something fresh.
I did not realize how long it had been
since I last noticed a meal like this.
I take another sip.
It tastes… full.
I had forgotten that food could feel this way.
The realization arrives quietly.
Not all at once.
I look up.
Caravan Master sits not far from me.
Ryn is nearby.
The crew are gathered closer to the fire.
They eat the same meal.
The same warmth.
The same food.
But nothing about it lingers for them.
Their movements do not slow.
Their expressions do not change.
It passes through them
as something already known.
There is quiet laughter.
Fragments of conversation I do not follow.
No one speaks of the road behind us.
Not the attack.
Not the bear.
As if those moments do not remain long enough
to be carried here.
I watch them.
The way they sit.
The way they eat.
The way they return to stillness
without effort.
There is no tension left in them.
Or perhaps—
it never stayed long enough to be noticed.
I look back at the bowl in my hands.
It feels heavier now.
Not because of the food.
But because of the time it has taken me
to arrive at it.
I thought the road had already been difficult.
I thought I had begun to understand it.
But I am beginning to see
that what I have felt so far
has not been the weight of it.
Only the edge.
Something close enough to be mistaken for it.
They have been walking within it for much longer.
Long enough
that it no longer changes the way they move.
Or the way they rest.
I take another sip.
The warmth is still there.
But it no longer feels the same.
Not because it has changed.
But because I have begun to notice
how easily it disappears for them.
Ravenflock is close now.
Close enough to be named.
But I am beginning to understand
that distance is not always measured
by how far something is.
Sometimes
it is measured
by how long it takes
to become used to what surrounds you.
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