The morning sun heralded the dawn.
Sawyer felt it before he saw it—the subtle release after a long-held breath, the world easing its grip inch by inch. Night did not end so much as loosen. Pale light crept through canvas seams and wagon slats, softening the hard edges the dark had carved into the ground. Coals stirred as if reluctant to go cold. Somewhere nearby, a kettle began to hiss, the sound thin but insistent.
The camp did not wake all at once.
It came back together in pieces.
Sawyer watched it happen without moving, noting the order of things the way he always did. Sound before sight. Heat before motion. People before words. The shape of the morning rebuilt itself around him with quiet competence, as if last night had only bent it, not broken it.
Melody loosened first.
He felt that, too. The Song—so taut through the dark—relaxed its grip, the careful weave of vigilance easing into longer, slower currents. It no longer pressed at the edges of movement, no longer corrected before mistakes could form. It listened instead. To breath. To shifting weight. To the small, human noises that meant survival had carried through another night.
The tension didn't disappear.
It thinned.
Like mist drawn apart by warming air.
Sawyer stood at the edge of it all, already awake, already accounting.
He stood near the perimeter where the road curved away from the trees, boots planted in last night's dust. His coat hung open, dew-beaded at the hem. He hadn't slept deeply—hadn't expected to—but the stillness of early morning had done something sleep could not. It had let the world settle back into place around him.
Behind him, wagons creaked as axles were checked. Canvas flaps lifted. Children were hushed, then fed. Animals stamped and snorted, impatience returning with the sun.
No one spoke of the goblin tracks.
Not directly.
But eyes lingered longer on the tree line. Guards stretched with weapons in hand rather than leaving them propped nearby. The road ahead was watched before it was walked.
Agnes finished her lap of the camp just as the light crested the low hills. She smelled faintly of ash and herbs, hair braided tighter than usual. When she reached Sawyer, she stopped beside him without comment, following his gaze down the road.
"Morning," she said eventually.
"Morning," Sawyer replied.
They stood there, listening.
The Song hummed faintly—present, restrained. It didn't gather the group yet. It waited for them to decide to move.
"How was your sleep?" Agnes questioned.
"Enough," Sawyer replied.
She nodded. "That's good."
A pause.
Agnes glanced past him, toward the cluster of bedrolls nearer the wagons.
"Kris is still out," she said, voice lowered. Not amused. Not worried. Just noting it.
Sawyer followed her gaze.
Kristaphs lay exactly where he had collapsed hours earlier, cloak still wrapped around him, one arm slung over his pack as if he'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. His breathing was slow and even—deep, unguarded. The kind of sleep that only came after exhaustion finally won an argument it had been losing all night.
"He earned it," Sawyer said.
Agnes hummed softly. "He always does that. Pushes through the night and then just… shuts off."
As if summoned by the comment, a low, steady rumble issued from Kristaphs's direction—nothing dramatic, but persistent. Agnes exhaled through her nose, something between a sigh and a laugh.
Agnes tilted her head slightly, listening past Kristaphs's snoring, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Everyone's got their little morning curses," she said. "You start counting things. I start checking them. The rest? Absolute disasters."
Sawyer glanced at her.
"Disasters?"
"Lovable ones," she amended, already turning her gaze inward toward the camp.
"Aluna first," Agnes said. "She's awake. She just refuses to admit it."
Sawyer followed her line of sight.
Aluna sat upright on her bedroll, eyes firmly shut, spine straight as if she were already in prayer. Her hands drifted through the air in careful, searching motions. She reached for her staff and missed. Reached again, closer. Found it on the third try with a small nod of satisfaction. A waterskin tipped, wobbled, and was rescued at the last second.
"She does that every morning," Agnes whispered, amused. "Wakes up, decides the world doesn't deserve eye contact yet."
Aluna's lips moved faintly, finishing some private thought. Only after a long breath did her eyes finally open. She blinked at the camp, then at the sky, and immediately began arranging her things with brisk efficiency, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Sawyer watched a second longer than necessary.
"That seems… intentional."
"Oh, very," Agnes said. "She claims it keeps her centered. I think she just enjoys walking into trees less than the rest of us."
Her attention slid a few paces over.
"Bran's my favorite," she added.
Bran sat perched on a crate near the wagons, completely still. His eyes were open, but vacant—fixed on nothing, seeing even less. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe noticeably. Just existed, suspended somewhere between sleep and thought.
Agnes counted under her breath.
"One… two… three…"
A full minute passed.
Then Bran suddenly inhaled, scrubbed both hands down his face, and muttered something unrepeatable.
"There we go," Agnes said, pleased. "Takes him a while to regain sentience."
Bran stood, stretched until his joints protested loudly, and immediately began tightening a strap he'd already secured.
Sawyer huffed quietly.
"And Faust?"
Agnes didn't even bother pointing.
"You can hear him."
Sawyer listened.
Beneath the morning sounds—boots, voices, the kettle's rising hiss—came a deep, offended growl. It rose and fell with impressive consistency.
Faust lay sprawled on his back, mouth open, one hand resting protectively over his stomach as if it were a wounded ally.
"That's not snoring," Agnes said solemnly. "That's his stomach filing a formal complaint."
"Asleep?" Sawyer asked.
"Technically," she said. "But the moment food exists, he'll know."
As if on cue, Faust shifted, muttering something about bread without waking.
Agnes smiled, softer now.
"The world hasn't scared them into being different yet," she said. "I'll take that as a good sign."
The Song tightened gently around the waking camp, not with urgency, but with fond familiarity.
Morning had found them.
And somehow, they were still themselves.
The kettle was finally taken off the fire.
Cups were filled, passed, refilled. The last of the coals were smothered beneath damp earth, smoke curling low and thin before vanishing altogether. Canvas was folded with practiced motions. Bedrolls were shaken, rolled, tied. The camp's footprint shrank with every minute, evidence of their passing reduced to pressed grass and faint rings of ash.
The Song responded.
Not sharply—never sharply in the morning—but with a gentle tightening of rhythm. It nudged bodies into lanes. Timed the lifting of packs so shoulders didn't clash. Smoothed the start of movement into something that looked effortless from the outside.
Faust finally sat up, blinking against the light, hair sticking out in defiance of gravity. He squinted at the sky, then at the wagons, then down at his own hands as if checking whether they were still attached.
"Breakfast?" he asked hopefully.
Agnes didn't miss a beat. She pressed a heel of bread into his palm.
"Yes," she said sweetly. "Breakfast."
He stared at it for half a second, suspicion flickering. Then his stomach growled again—louder this time, clearly impatient with negotiations.
"Mmm, breakfast," Faust declared, tearing into it with immediate focus.
Bran watched him chew for a moment, eyes half-lidded.
"You didn't even ask what kind of bread it was."
Faust spoke around a mouthful.
"Breakfast is breakfast."
Aluna drifted closer, staff tucked under one arm, expression serene despite the faint crease between her brows that only showed this early in the morning.
"You say that now," she said, "but yesterday you complained the crust was too philosophical."
"It challenged me," Faust said gravely. "At this hour, complaints."
Agnes snorted and turned as a familiar, uneven step approached.
Kristaphs shuffled into view, eyes half-open, cloak pulled tighter around himself like the world was being personally offensive. He paused, took in Faust eating, Bran standing, Aluna awake and functional—and sighed.
"…what did I miss?" he asked.
Agnes tilted her head.
"You missed early breakfast."
Faust swallowed and looked up.
"There was early breakfast?"
"No," Agnes said. "But you were asleep, so it feels fair to say you missed something."
Kristaphs rubbed at his face, blinking hard.
"Payback comes emptyhanded."
Aluna handed him a cup without comment. He accepted it gratefully, sniffed, then drank, shoulders loosening almost immediately.
"Next time," Kristaphs muttered, "wake me if there's bread involved."
Faust grinned.
"Next time, sleep lighter."
Kristaphs shot him a look.
"Next time, keep your stomach quieter."
"That wasn't me," Faust said.
Bran shook his head slowly.
"I swear, one day it's going to wake up the wrong thing."
The Song drifted around them, patient, indulgent—holding the small, ordinary sounds of a group that had survived the night and was, somehow, still joking about it.
The group gathered loosely near the wagons—not in a tight circle, not formal, just close enough to share warmth and food. Bread passed hands. A small pot was uncovered, its contents simple and steaming. Someone produced dried fruit. Someone else complained quietly about the portions and took a second piece anyway.
Around them, the caravan's civilians slipped into their own rhythms.
A mother coaxed her child into eating while retelling the same story from the night before, exaggerating just enough to make the danger feel distant. Two drivers argued amiably over a wheel strap while working together to retighten it. An older man sat on the edge of a wagon bed, chewing slowly, watching the trees as if they might move when he wasn't looking.
Life continued.
Bran finished one last check of the wagons, palms brushing wood and rope as if counting by touch, then joined the group without comment. Aluna murmured something under her breath and tapped her staff lightly against the ground before accepting a piece of bread with a nod of thanks.
Even the animals seemed calmer now—lines slackened, hooves settling, ears flicking rather than snapping at every sound.
Sawyer ate standing, eyes still drifting toward the road ahead. The Song moved gently through it all, threading between people, smoothing the small collisions of movement and intent. It did not hurry them. It simply held things together.
Kristaphs drifted close again as the last cups were emptied.
"Did you see them too?" he asked quietly.
Sawyer didn't look at him.
"The tracks?"
Kristaphs nodded once.
"Most were covered. But they were at most a day old." His voice stayed low, meant only for the space between them. "They weren't scouting. They were moving."
Sawyer's jaw tightened.
"From where?"
"To another den, maybe," Kristaphs replied. "Close enough to bother with the move."
That earned a glance.
Kristaphs met it steadily.
"I missed how many there were. That part's on me."
"No," Sawyer said. "It's unreasonable to be expected to have an accurate estimate from just foot tracks."
Kristaphs exhaled slowly, relief or tension bleeding out—hard to tell which.
"But we both still agree."
"Yes."
They walked in silence for a few steps, the sound of the caravan filling the gap.
"The foliage gets thicker after the next bend," Kristaphs continued. "If too much movement happens."
Sawyer looked ahead, already mapping sightlines, distances, places where the road narrowed and the Song would have less room to maneuver.
"Then we prepare arms," he said.
Kristaphs's mouth curved faintly.
"Thought you might say that."
Behind them, the camp was gone.
Ahead, the road opened.
And the forest, patient as ever, waited.
Sawyer had inferred many things about this new world—the familiar patterns, the unfamiliar rules, the way people moved, the way the Song listened and responded. The language was the same. The writing was the same.
But what was a goblin?