The man did not wait for their response.
He inclined his head once, as though the matter were settled, and turned toward the narrow street he come from. Lantern light caught the lines of his face for a moment before he disappeared into the crowd.
"You're not going to follow him?" Kael asked.
Lyra realized she hadn't breathed in several seconds. "I'm not sure if I should."
"That's usually when you act," Kael replied.
Veyr remained by the stone marker, still and composed. "Not yet," he said.
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
"Because this place is observing you," Veyr said. "And it has not determined what you are."
Kael muttered under his breath. "Great. Just what I needed."
Lyra studied the ground between them. The map stayed folded in her hands. It had gone silent. Not calm—silent in the way a held breath hangs before release.
"You're holding it as if it might vanish," Kael noted.
Lyra relaxed her grip slightly. "It feels… distant."
Veyr glanced at her briefly. "The River does not offer without taking."
Kael frowned. "You said it was memory, regret, echoes."
"And it was," Veyr said. "But echoes do not fade on their own."
A cold, subtle weight pressed on Lyra's chest. "What did it take from me?"
Veyr hesitated. The pause was enough.
Kael's voice tightened. "Veyr."
"It's not something you can name, at least not yet," he said finally.
Lyra exhaled slowly, steadying herself. "Do it anyway."
"The River strips excess weight," Veyr said. "Emotional resistance. Longing. Attachments that tie you too firmly to one version of yourself."
Lyra frowned, reflecting carefully. He was right.
The understanding did not bring pain. That was what unsettled her most.
She remembered wanting an ordinary life. She remembered saying it aloud.
But the ache attached to that wish, the quiet grief that had lingered beneath it, was gone.
Kael noticed her expression. "Lyra?"
"I don't miss it anymore," she said slowly.
Silence hung between them.
"That's not relief," Kael said. "It's emptiness."
Lyra nodded. "I know."
They continued walking. The rhythm they had relied on, the unspoken trust and shared movement, felt uneven now. The bond remained, but something beneath it had shifted.
When they reached the edge of a low ridge, Lyra stopped.
Below them, a small settlement rested between broken stone terraces. Smoke curled from chimneys. Lanterns glimmered faintly as dusk deepened.
Kael exhaled. "Finally."
Lyra studied the town. The map remained still, offering neither guidance nor warning.
"This hasn't happened before," she murmured.
Veyr's stance tightened. "The map is adjusting to you."
Kael glanced at him. "I don't like the way you say that so casually."
They descended toward the settlement. Even as people went about their routines, something about the way they moved felt slightly off. Conversations paused when Lyra passed. Children stared without understanding why. An older woman crossed herself with a small, habitual gesture.
None of it seemed hostile.
That unsettled Lyra.
"They don't seem afraid," she murmured. "They seem… familiar with me."
Kael scowled. "I don't want to be someone's déjà vu."
Veyr's gaze remained fixed on the people. "This settlement exists on a convergence of paths. Not fractures. Paths leading to outcomes, some fulfilled and some abandoned."
Kael blinked. "You mean people who almost left a mark?"
"People who mattered briefly," Veyr said.
Lyra felt a hollow weight in her chest.
She looked down at the map. The golden threads were faint, almost dormant, yet she could sense them—not guiding, simply present. Waiting.
"Why would I have been here before?" she asked quietly.
Veyr did not answer at once. When he spoke, his voice was measured. "Because your path is unlike others."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that won't mislead you," he said.
Kael exhaled sharply. "That's… reassuring."
A distant bell rang softly. The sound rippled outward, shifting the people around them. Lanterns were adjusted, doors opened wider. Several individuals glanced toward the square, then at Lyra again, as if trying to reconcile two realities.
Lyra's unease deepened. She felt present, solid. And yet the world around her seemed to question it.
A young girl approached, holding a small bundle of cloth. She stopped a few steps away, looking up at Lyra.
"You look different this time," she said.
Kael swore under his breath.
Lyra crouched slightly. "Different from when?"
The girl tilted her head. "From before."
Lyra's voice remained calm. "What do you remember from before?"
The girl frowned. "Not much. Just that you were sad."
Lyra felt a sharp sting.
"I'm not sad now," she said softly.
The girl smiled. "Good."
She held out the bundle. "You dropped this."
Lyra hesitated, then accepted it. Inside lay a thin strip of metal—dull, scratched, unmistakably familiar.
Kael leaned closer. "That looks familiar."
Lyra nodded. Her fingers closed around it. For a brief instant, memory brushed the edge of her mind—not a scene, not an image, just the weight of a choice she couldn't fully grasp.
"Thank you," she said to the girl.
The girl shrugged. "You're welcome. Don't forget again."
She ran off before Lyra could ask more.
Kael watched her run off. "Great. Just when I thought today couldn't get weirder."
Veyr's voice was low. "This settlement remembers consequences, not causes."
Lyra turned to the square. The stone marker caught the lantern light subtly. Not activating, not calling—just waiting.
"If I was here before," she said, "and don't remember it… which version of me did they know?"
Veyr looked at her fully. "One who made a choice that stopped her."
Kael's expression darkened. "You mean she failed."
"No," Veyr said. "She didn't fail—she only stopped for a moment."
The distinction struck Lyra sharply.
She stepped closer to the marker, toward the people who half-remembered her. She didn't feel brave or destined. She felt present.
And in that moment, she understood with a chilling clarity that it was enough to be dangerous.
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