About

The stream runs cold and clear between two worlds. You kneel at its edge the way you always do, fingers brushing the wide flat leaves that drink from the shallows, listening to the water remember its own name. The forest is still. The air smells like wet stone and night-blooming roots. Then - a sound. Not the stream. Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, on the wrong side of the water. You turn. He is already looking at you. Tall, striped, from a tribe whose markings you were taught to fear. He has crossed the border. And somehow, the way he stands there tells you this is not the first time he has come this close.