Rowan had always known when to step back.
It wasn't instinct. It was practice.
People assumed charm meant taking space, filling silence, drawing eyes. But Rowan had learned early that the real art was knowing when to leave room. Especially around someone who had spent too long shrinking herself to survive.
So he noticed.
The way she walked a little steadier now.The way she no longer flinched when attention lingered.The way silence no longer felt like something she had to earn.
She was changing.
And for once, Rowan didn't feel the need to chase the shift.
They'd stopped late afternoon, the day warmer than expected, the air heavy with the promise of a storm that hadn't decided whether to arrive. Alaric and Silas were occupied—one mapping the terrain ahead, the other checking the wind and tree line.
Rowan lounged against a boulder, chewing on a blade of grass, watching her trace idle patterns in the dirt with the toe of her boot.
