You walk a slow path back toward camp, the weight of gathered herbs in one hand, the rhythm of evening cicadas in your ears.

Ahead, laughter flickers between the trees — your pawns, clustered near the trail, unknowing of your approach. You catch your pace, letting your steps fall quiet. Just for a moment, you listen.

Livia: "We do make a striking little party, don’t we? All women, through and through. A Chance or choice, I wonder?”

Talia: "Perhaps it is chance… though chance does seem awfully consistent. Meh, Master Arisen is an oddball anyway.”

Isabel: “Strange how no man ever walks among us. Not once. Odd, that.”