It had been several days now.
The stream had remained their quiet companion, always flowing to their right. It dipped and weaved across the landscape, cutting through groves of trees and skimming the edges of low hills. The sound of the water had long since faded into the rhythm of travel—less a sound they noticed now, and more a feeling, like the familiar heartbeat of their journey.
And then, as the day reached its second half, the trees began to thin.
The dirt path widened into a gentle slope, and beyond it, tucked snugly within a basin of tall grasses and a small ring of trees, sat a village. Small. Humble. Almost identical in size to Meren, if not just a touch more spread out. White smoke curled lazily from several chimneys, and a few dots of colour hinted at villagers moving about their daily routines.
From their spot atop the carriage, Luke slowed Vartha to a halt.
