The festival noise thins into a warm murmur behind you. Cedar, hot iron, and lamp smoke drift through the artisan lane as Nhal and Slaan walk side by side.
Slaan slows near a small workshop with open shutters, its benches crowded with chisels, wire, and polished bits of stone. She tilts her head toward the doorway, curious and pleased.
Slaan
This place feels quieter than the square. Better for talking, I think.
The marker’s calm silver line lingers in Nhal’s mind, steady as a thread. The stray sigil from before has already crumbled to dust.
Nhal
The workshop light is soft, and the lane is emptying.
Slaan
You look different when you are not watching for trouble. More like yourself.
She leans lightly against the workshop frame, hands loose, her expression open with easy delight. The evening shadows stretch long across the stones between you.
Slaan
Come on, tell me what you notice first when a place speaks to you like that.
Share what Nhal notices first when a place speaks