They walk without speaking.

  The sun is nearly gone now, only a thin band of orange clinging to the edge of the world. Shadows stretch across the road and soften the village into murmurs and closing doors.

  Her feet ache. Her back complains. She keeps it to herself though, even more so with Aarav showing no signs of being tired himself. The quiet between her and Aarav is not hostile, but it carries weight.

  It feels like wandering.

  No direction. No destination. Just one road bleeding into the next as they drift along the outer parts of the village. Weeds split the dirt underfoot. The houses thin out. Quieter in some places. Light flickers behind shutters. Some windows already go dark.

  And yet.

  Aarav keeps looking toward the better end of Dunlow.

  Not blatantly. Never long enough to be obvious. But often enough that she notices. A glance. A look away. Then another, as if his eyes are being pulled there despite himself. Like a man circling a choice.

  They are not wandering after all. Not really.

  He is guiding them. Gently. Almost reluctantly. Drawn toward something he is taking his time to get to, unsure whether he wants to reach it.

  He mutters under his breath.

  Low. Nearly swallowed by the evening. Once or twice she catches what might be a name, or perhaps just a sound shaped like one, but it slips away before she can make sense of it.

  Seren lets him walk ahead and turns inward. If he has a plan, he is keeping it to himself. And she cannot afford to question him now, not in the middle of a village that is slowly closing its doors.

  There has to be a way. Food. Shelter. Something.

  In the tales, it would have been easy. People help priestesses on the road. A robe. A token. A few quiet words and doors open. Travellers soften. But she has none of that now. No symbols. No vestments. No visible proof. Just her voice and a tired face.

  They could ask. Knock. Tell the truth and the kind people of Dunlow would help them. The idea wilts as soon as it forms. Generosity is one thing when faith is familiar. Another entirely when a stranger asks you to share what little you have left.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Work, then.

  That feels more solid. Kitchens always need hands. Wood always needs splitting. Floors scrub themselves only in stories. But work costs time, and time is exactly what they do not have.

  She sighs and looks at Aarav again.

  She does not want to rely on him. She has never wanted to rely on anyone.

  But the truth presses in anyway. Without him, she would have been caught. Or worse. He knows which roads to avoid. When to move. When to wait. How the world outside Highmarrow works. Life has taught him things the temple never did.

  Seren bites the inside of her cheek and keeps walking.

  She is not helpless. She will not become helpless. Still, the world is wider and knottier than she ever imagined, and Aarav moves through it with a kind of instinct, even when he looks like a man without a map.

  The streets begin to change.

  She sees it once she starts paying attention. Fences stand straighter. Doors carry paint instead of splinters. Windows have proper shutters. Gardens are small but cared for. More stone now. Fewer posts leaning at tired angles. Even the air feels different. Cleaner. She hears laughter somewhere ahead, low and easy, spilling from a porch.

  They have crossed into the better part of Dunlow.

  Aarav slows.

  He does not say anything at first. He stops at the edge of a lantern lit street and fixes his gaze on a house a short distance away. Stone built. White shutters. Ivy creeping along one wall. The sort of place that belongs to someone with money but not titles.

  He stands there too long. Like something inside him is arguing with his feet.

  Seren waits. Patience is one thing she has plenty of.

  At last he speaks, his voice low, roughened by hesitation.

  "I know someone here."

  She turns to him. "In Dunlow?"

  He nods. "Someone I worked with. A long time ago."

  His eyes do not leave the house.

  "We’re not friends," he adds, more to himself than her. "But he might help."

  "Might?"

  A small shrug. "Or he might not."

  Seren looks from the house back to Aarav.

  "What do we do?"

  There was a pause. Then Aarav exhaled slowly and nodded again, though it looked like it was more for himself than anyone else.

  He stepped forward, then stopped. His hand flexed at his side, his gaze still locked on the house as if it might vanish if he blinked.

  “We can try,” he said at last.

  Seren did not speak. She simply walked forward.

  After a moment, Aarav followed.

  His steps were slower now. Reluctant. Each one seemed measured, as if part of him wanted to turn around. Whatever lay inside that house was not simple for him. That much was clear.