They left the square without being followed.
At least, not openly.
The road out of the settlement bent eastward, skirting fields that had already been harvested. Dry stalks clicked softly in the wind. The shepherd walked with his hood low, every step measured, listening for sounds that did not belong.
Kael did not rush him.
They walked far enough that the noise of people thinned, then disappeared entirely. Only the road remained. Packed dirt, uneven stone, and the long patience of travel.
“You do not walk like someone running,” Kael said at last.
“I have nowhere to run to,” the shepherd replied.
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Kael nodded. “That helps.”
They stopped near a low rise where a stream cut across the road. Clear water, shallow enough to cross without boots. The shepherd knelt, splashed his face, and drank.
The pressure returned.
Not stronger than before. Not weaker either. It sat in him like a held breath, waiting.
Kael watched him carefully. “You feel it again.”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
The shepherd shook his head. “It feels like something expects me to answer.”
Kael looked away toward the hills. “That is worse.”
They crossed the stream and continued until the sun dipped low. When they stopped to make camp, it was not because they were tired. It was because the road had grown quiet in a way that felt deliberate.
No insects. No birds.
Only wind.
Kael built the fire while the shepherd gathered stones. Neither spoke much. Words felt heavy here, as if the ground might keep them.
Later, as the fire burned down, Kael finally said, “The priests will not forget you.”
“I did nothing.”
“They do not care. The land listened.”
The shepherd stared into the embers. “What happens now?”
Kael considered him. “Now you become inconvenient.”
That night, the shepherd dreamed of fields that would not grow and songs that ended halfway through their verses.
He woke before dawn.
The road waited.
