The cart left the last stretch of forest just after midday.
Mist still clung to the low fields. A thin track became a rutted lane, then a quiet village road lined with whitewashed cottages. Dogs barked once and fell silent. No one called out to the strangers.
Soren reined the horses in at the edge of the square.
"We walk from here."
Elian climbed down carefully. Soren offered his arm; Elian took it. They left the cart with a boy who knew Soren's face and asked nothing, then started up the narrow path behind the church.
The house sat alone at the end — small, timber and stone, a garden of late greens, one chimney breathing pale smoke. No crest. No servants. Just a wooden door and two windows looking over the valley.
Soren stopped a few paces short.
"They don't know you're coming."
Elian's throat closed. He nodded once.
Soren knocked.
Footsteps. The door opened on Rosalie.
She looked incredibly fine from what Elian thought she'd look like.
