The next morning, rain misted over the village, soft and steady. Ash sat under the eaves of the bakery, watching the drops pool along the cobbled path. The world felt slower here, less like it was waiting to break him, more like it was inviting him to listen.
He was halfway through carving a small figure from a chunk of scrap wood, something Elira had handed him without explanation, when the door behind him creaked open.
"You're going to lose a finger if you keep holding it like that."
Ash turned, the figure still clutched in his hand. A young woman stood just inside the doorway, dark cloak soaked through, boots caked with mud. She had eyes like stormclouds, quiet, watchful, and a tired kind of poise, like someone used to doing things alone.
"Not the warmest greeting," Ash said, setting the wood aside.
"Not a greeting. Just advice," she replied, stepping past him. She wore a satchel over one shoulder and the scent of rosemary and iron clung to her.
