Routes I’ve memorized without ever meaning to—carried in pieces, overheard in fragments, stitched together over years of listening and watching and surviving.
North routes feed inward.
Outer villages supply the next layer.
Everything funnels toward Orthani.
And if something starts cutting from the edges?—
“They’ll keep moving,” I murmur.
“What?” Maira asks.
I shake my head.
“Nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing.
Because I can feel it now, the shape of it forming behind my eyes. Not clean. Not perfect. But there.
A path.
Not straight—but deliberate.
Advancing.
Testing.
Taking.
My breath tightens.
No.
It could still be scattered.
It could still be?—
“Lyria.”
Fenrix again.
I look up, irritation flashing before I can stop it.
“What?”
He jerks his chin toward the perimeter.
“Guards.”
I follow his gaze.
Two of them, walking slower than they should, their attention drifting—not scanning, not routine.
Watching.
The weight of it settles over my shoulders like something physical.
