By midday, the mist lifted entirely, revealing a parched landscape. The stream they'd followed dried up, its bed cracked and dusty, the stones hot enough to burn bare feet. Leon knelt, touching the soil—it was bone-dry, no sign of moisture. "We need water," he said, his throat already feeling tight. They'd brought only enough for three days, and half of it had been used to rinse their vine burns.
Isabella scanned the area, her eyes widening as she pointed to a depression in the ground, ringed by lush green moss. "Look—moss grows where it's damp. Maybe water's close?"
Leon hurried over, his heart lifting. The moss was thick and vibrant, a sure sign of groundwater near the surface. He remembered how he'd purified salt stones months earlier—layered charcoal and sand to trap impurities—and a plan took shape. "We'll dig a seepage well," he said, pulling his knife from his belt. "The moss means water's just below the dirt. We can catch it, filter it, and have clean drinking water."
They dug with knives and hands, the soil growing moister as they descended. When they'd dug a hole waist-deep, Leon wove a frame from flexible willow branches—gathered from the clearing—and lined it with linen to keep the dirt from collapsing. Next, he layered crushed charcoal (from their campfire) at the bottom, then fine sand, then another layer of linen. "Charcoal soaks up toxins," he explained to Isabella, who watched intently. "Sand catches dirt. The linen keeps the layers from mixing. It'll make the water safe to drink."
By evening, water seeped into the well, clear and cool. Leon dipped a cup in, tasting it—clean, no bitter aftertaste. Isabella drank greedily, sighing with relief. But Leon knew one well wouldn't be enough—they needed a way to collect water even if the seepage slowed, or if the well dried up. The mist returned each night; there had to be a way to harvest it.
That night, he studied the stars through the treetops, then turned to the bark of a birch tree. Using his knife, he stripped long, curved strips of bark, bending them into shallow troughs. He wove linen over the troughs to catch mist, then propped them at an angle against the trees, their ends leading to a clay jar. "Dew collection," he told Isabella, who leaned in curiously. "The mist condenses on the linen at night. This will catch it—by morning, we'll have more water than we can carry."
Isabella helped him set up a dozen troughs, her fingers nimble as she tied the linen tight to keep it from blowing away. "Will it really work?" she asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Leon nodded, patting the jar. "In the morning, you'll see."
He was right. At dawn, the jar was half-full, the linen glistening with leftover dew. The seepage well had refilled too, its water clear and cool. They filled their water skins and the jar, enough to last four more days. As they packed up camp, Isabella glanced back at the well and troughs. "Someone else might need this," she said softly.
Leon paused, then carved a small sign into a nearby tree—an arrow pointing to the well, and a crude drawing of a water skin. "They'll find it," he said. Survival wasn't just about taking—it was about leaving something for those who came after, just as Kael had left the trail for them.
They walked on, the sun warming their backs, the water sloshing gently in their skins. For the first time since entering the southern edge, Leon felt a flicker of calm. They had a way to drink, a way to keep going. And in this harsh land, that was enough.