By the time the sun reaches its highest point, the wagon has already made itself thoroughly known to them.

  It has spent the morning talking, constantly. Wood protesting under load, the sounds long and drawn out, like something resigned to complaining about every little thing. Iron rims striking stone with that sharp, ringing tick that repeats over and over. Rope rasping against canvas hoops in a steady undertone that never quite fades. Near Aarav’s boot, the loose plank has kept its rhythm without mercy, marking the hours with the same stubborn beat and making it clear, early on, that this journey will run at the wagon’s pace and not a moment faster.

  Morning had moved on slowly. Cool air at first, thin and clean, with a dull stretch of grey cloud laid across the sky. The sun had shown itself briefly, just enough to promise warmth, then slipped back behind the cover.

  As the hours passed, the light thickened. Dust crept into the air. Dry grass and old leather began to dominate the smell of things. The fields they started among have long since fallen away behind them, replaced by low hills that rise and sink again, hiding the road ahead. Birds flicker from tree to tree in the distance, busy and indifferent. Ahead, the dark line of woodland has stayed fixed on the horizon, growing closer only by increments.

  The wagon has offered no peace as the day has unfolded. That was never its purpose. It was built to last, not for comfort.

  It didn’t take them long to work out how to manage in such cramped quarters. There is space for two, just barely, provided neither moves too much. Aarav has spent most of the morning with his back braced against a crate bearing a faded stamp he still cannot place, his knees drawn in to avoid the brake lever as the road dips and rises. Seren sits opposite, shoulder settled against a coil of rope, her feet tucked with care beside a folded sheet of spare canvas. She has not shifted much. When the road dips or the load shifts, she moves only as much as needed, hands steady and with good timing. She is smart to have learned so quickly.

  Aarav has to manage the brake. Warnings come down the line, but he can read the slope, and then controls the descent by feel and pressure alone. On shallow dips he eases it in. On steeper ground he commits his weight and holds it steady.

  That arrangement suits him.

  He had intended to keep his thoughts to himself. Most days, he prefers company in measured amounts, something taken lightly and not often. He can charm a table for an evening, leave people smiling and certain they enjoyed his presence, and then step back into the night and feel relief in the quiet. Too much talk drains him. Too much closeness leaving him tired and grumpy. Somewhere along the way, he learned to value an empty room and to carry the shape of one inside himself, a place he can close off when he needs to.

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  With most people, that door stays shut.

  With Seren, he finds it more difficult.

  It does not open fully, but it opens enough for him to notice the strangeness of it.

  There is something about the quiet she brings with her. She does not rush to fill it as others do. When she asks a question, it is asked genuinely and seemingly without hidden meaning. When he answers, she does not nod and drift, waiting for her turn to speak. She listens. Properly. The sort of listening that makes you feel heard, like what you have to say matters.

  He decides to speak first and finds he doesn’t need to push himself.

  A little truth, offered freely, usually draws a little truth back. It is an old lesson, picked up in taverns and half lit rooms, as practical as watching reflections in a bottle to see who stands behind you. You open a door just enough. Let the other person choose whether to step through. He tells himself he will do exactly that. That it was their choice.

  He clears his throat lightly, as if the thought wandered in on its own.

  “One thing about travelling around,” he says, voice easy, eyes on the hedgerow sliding past. “Is you get a lot of time to think, wonder at at things. Like, how life could have turned out different.”

  Seren looks up from studying the grain of the rope by her shoulder. “I would imagine that is something you would often have to think about.”

  He smiles. “Harsh.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “I have never questioned my path in life.”

  “I am not sure if I am jealous," he says. “Or thankful I have led a more interesting life.”

  “You think your life a better one than mine?” She retorts angrily. “Until recently, I have had everything I could ever want. A purpose, my faith and a family. I do not pretend to know you, do not pretend to know me.”

  He exhales a quiet laugh despite himself. Fair. And he notes of the sore point, she clearly misses her life in the temple, he can use that. He shifts his weight against the crate and lets the wagon carry them on, the road unspooling beneath the wheels as if it has all the time in the world.

  “I am sorry,” he says apologetically. “You’re right, I don’t know anything about you. Only that you seem to get plenty of unwanted attention. Afterall, you have countless men chasing you,” switching to a joke.

  For a moment she looks as if she might fight a smile. Not quite losing. Not quite winning. He feels a small satisfaction anyway, the sense of a lock clicking. Not open. Just loosened.

  “Tell me something about you then,” he says, light, careless, like a thought that barely matters. “Anything at all. I will repay with something about me. Trade of equal or slightly unequal value.”

  “That sounds like a thief’s bargain,” she says.

  “Then it is comfortably within my area of expertise.”

  She studies him for a second, weighing it, then turns it neatly back on him. “You first.”