Aryaman knelt by the stream, letting his hands sink into the cool water. Ripples darted away from his fingers, and the chill eased the deep ache in his muscles—a reminder of the exhaustion he carried back from the ley lines. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, warming his skin, but it couldn’t strip away the shadows clinging to him. The northern kingdom’s border lay just behind them, and in this foreign land, he felt the weight of his duty more than ever. He was here to link the local deities and strengthen the barriers against the impending darkness, yet memories of the ley lines left him feeling stripped and uncertain.

Nearby, Himmat’s breathing was steady, punctuated by soft slurps of water. Aryaman glanced over at his companion, whose ears flicked back and forth, sensing his unease. Aryaman inhaled deeply, projecting calm to steady both his horse and himself.

Sanjaya’s footsteps broke the quiet, crunching over fallen leaves as he joined Aryaman at the water’s edge. Aryaman sensed Sanjaya’s curious gaze even without looking. He knew his friend was weighing whether to ask about the ley lines—an ordeal neither of them had expected.

“Arya…” Sanjaya’s voice was tentative. “What was it like… in the ley lines?”

For a moment, Aryaman watched a leaf spin down the stream, caught in the current.

“Like staring into a cruel mirror,” he murmured. “It strips away everything you pretend to be, forces you to confront yourself in ways you’d rather avoid.” His fingers curled in the water as memories of twisted faces and scenes of failure surged through him, visions that had felt real enough to pierce him.

Sanjaya stepped closer, sympathy softening his expression, but Aryaman shook his head.

“Even princes have limits,” he added with a hollow smile.

A shrill cry shattered the quiet, pulling Aryaman’s attention to the forest’s edge. A small child stumbled into view, followed by a woman clutching another child to her chest. Her clothes were tattered, her face hollow with fatigue and fear.

The child’s foot slipped on the muddy bank, and before Aryaman could call out, he darted forward, catching her just as she began to fall. He lifted her gently, heart pounding, and set her back on solid ground.

The woman’s expression shifted slightly, relief softening the wariness in her eyes. She drew her children close, her body tense but less guarded as she took in Aryaman’s appearance. Her gaze darted to his cloak, lingering on the insignia there, then shifted to Sanjaya’s sword.

Aryaman felt her fear like a presence, thick and palpable in the air between them. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, darting from his face to Sanjaya’s, then past them to some unseen horror only she could recall. She clutched her children tightly, her knuckles white, her breath shallow and fast. The haunted look in her eyes unsettled Aryaman; this wasn’t simple exhaustion. It was the look of someone who had seen too much, lost too much.

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Sanjaya approached slowly, hands open and gentle, his voice steady.

“You’re safe here,” he said softly, as if any louder might send her fleeing. “We mean you no harm. What happened to you?”

The woman blinked, her lips parting, but no sound came. Her gaze grew distant, as though she were seeing something beyond the forest around them, something that made her shiver. Aryaman took a quiet breath, trying to ground himself, trying to project the reassurance she needed.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice as calm as he could make it. “You are safe.”

The woman looked at him, her eyes glassy with memories too raw to speak of. Aryaman felt his heart clench as he watched her struggle with words. Without thinking, he reached into his pack, drawing out a piece of dried bread and a small pouch of nuts. He held them out, a simple offering. She stared at the food, her fingers twitching as though she’d forgotten what it was to accept kindness.

“Here,” he said gently, holding his hand steady, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth he hoped she could trust. “Please—take it.”

As her trembling hands reached forward, Aryaman noticed the dirt under her nails, the fine lines on her face deepened by worry and grief. He wondered how many days she had gone without food, how many nights she had held her children close, watching for shadows.

The woman glanced at the food in her hands, her fingers tightening around the small piece of bread and the handful of nuts. Her gaze flicked to her children, and something softened in her face—a flicker of gentleness breaking through the fear that had etched lines around her eyes.

She broke the bread into two pieces, her hands trembling as she offered each piece to her children. The little girl reached up eagerly, clutching her piece to her chest as if it were something precious. Her brother hesitated, his wide eyes shifting between his mother and Aryaman before taking the bread in both hands, biting into it with small, hurried nibbles.

The woman watched them, her lips pressed into a thin line, and when her daughter looked up at her, crumbs dotting her mouth, she managed a small smile. The kind that didn’t reach her eyes but lingered there just long enough to reassure the children, if only a little.

“Looks like they haven’t eaten for a while,” Sanjaya commented to Aryaman.

The prince nodded his face grave with concern. Watching them, he felt a rising unease. Had they been wandering through the wilderness alone, desperate for food and safety?

After what seemed like an eternity, the woman whispered, “Tha…thank you.”

“You can speak!” Sanjaya teased gently, a flicker of relief softening his tone.

But Aryaman shook his head slightly, his gaze still focused on the young mother, his voice softened with respect.

“How can we help you, sister?”

The young mother looked at him, a glimmer of hope shining through her exhaustion. Her face softened, yet the shadows in her eyes didn’t fade. She spoke, her voice strained but steady.

“Can you really help us, young lords?”

“Of course we can,” Sanjaya replied with confidence, offering a reassuring smile.

But the woman’s face fell, her expression darkening as the weight of her reality returned. She glanced down, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We need… big help,” she said, her words as simple as they were heavy.