The river sang in soft ripples against the stone shallows, its sound threading through the hush of the valley. They'd found a stretch of bank where the willows leaned protectively over the water, their trailing branches forming a natural curtain.
Caleb guided the mules off the road with a quiet click of his tongue, unhitching the wagon beneath a knotted oak. Skylíng fluttered up to the lowest branch, surveying the scene like a sentinel. Gideon took to building a firepit from smooth river stones, while Ezra scattered a trail of breadcrumbs with the hopeful precision of someone who wanted to lure every fish in Verdantveil to her feet.
Eliakim busied himself pitching the canvas lean-to, though his eyes kept drifting to the far bank — to the single golden-veined blossom he'd spotted earlier. In the waning light, it almost seemed to pulse faintly, as if breathing.
Caleb crouched at the water's edge, his living bow resting across his knees. He touched the river with one hand, fingers splaying just under the surface. A cluster of minnows darted near, circling him in a tight halo before scattering again.
Then something odd happened.
The willow beside him shivered — not from wind, for the air was still — and a single green shoot sprouted from its bark right at Caleb's shoulder height. It grew unnaturally fast, curling toward him like a hand reaching for an old friend. Caleb glanced at it, neither surprised nor alarmed.
"Peace, little one," he murmured, brushing his fingers along the new shoot. The movement seemed to calm it; the curling stopped, the growth slowed, and the leaves trembled as if in relief.
Eliakim, watching from the fire, said nothing. But he noted the direction the shoot had been growing — not toward the sun, not toward the river, but toward Caleb himself.
Later, the fire crackled in a steady, low rhythm. The smell of roasting trout mingled with the faint scent of river mist. Gideon had gone to refill the water skins, and Ezra was busy rummaging in her pack for her journal. Skylíng dozed with one wing draped over its head.
Eliakim took the opportunity."You've got a way with plants," he said, voice casual as he turned a fish on the spit.
Caleb looked up from sharpening an arrow. "Everyone does, if they listen long enough."
"That willow back there was listening to you?" Eliakim's tone was light, but his eyes stayed sharp.
"Maybe," Caleb replied, his voice even, as if commenting on the weather. "Maybe it's been waiting."
"For what?"
The half-elf's smile was small, almost private. "For someone to come back."
Eliakim studied him, the firelight throwing shifting shadows across Caleb's face. There was no fear there — just the quiet certainty of a man who belonged to the world in ways others didn't.
Ezra broke the stillness by plopping down beside them, journal in hand. "Alright! Let's double-check what we're looking for tomorrow. The herb's called Starpetal Veinleaf—"
"The one with silver-threaded leaves and a faint mint scent," Caleb and Eliakim said in unison.
Ezra blinked. "Oh! You've both seen it?"
"Only in the higher reaches of river valleys," Caleb continued without hesitation. "They grow on shaded banks where the soil stays damp but never floods."
Eliakim's jaw tightened slightly. That was exactly what he'd been about to say — down to the phrasing. His gaze shifted to Caleb, whose expression remained unreadable.
Ezra, oblivious, scribbled the notes with a happy hum. Gideon returned and dropped the water skins with a thump, the moment dissolving into the easy rhythm of camp life again.
Eliakim let it pass.Not here. Not now.This was Ezra's vacation, Gideon's respite, Skylíng's chance to roam without threat.
But somewhere under the sound of the river, the question stayed sharp in his mind.How did Caleb know what I was going to say before I said it?