The night air tastes of damp leaves and old stone. Argul knows he has left the road because the ground no longer remembers the shape of wheels. Grass brushes his boots, uneven and slick with dew, and the slope beneath him has begun to lean in a way he does not like.

He stops.

Listens.

Below him, water movesslow, patient, far too far away. A ravine, then. Or a river gorge carved deep enough that the sound never quite reaches the surface. Argul swallows.

He lowers himself carefully, one knee touching the earth as he stretches a hand forward, fingers skimming nothing but cold air. Too far. Too empty. “…Well,” he murmurs, forcing calm into his voice, “that would have been unpleasant.”

He draws back at once, heart racing, and folds his hands together to still their trembling. The charm at his throat, smooth stone etched with a half-remembered rune rests warm against his skin. Magic, perhaps. Or simply hope. Then....

A breath that is not his own. Close. Close enough that it carries warmth. Argul’s head snaps toward it, unseeing eyes narrowing. “You’re very quiet,” he says softly. “Which tells me you either don’t wish to frighten me… or you very much do.”

Silence stretches. At last, a voice answers, hesitant. “You’re standing at the edge.” “Yes,” Argul replies dryly. “I gathered as much.” He shifts back a careful step. Loose pebbles skitter away and vanish into the dark, counting the distance for him. Far. Too far. “If you mean me harm,” he continues, “I would prefer honesty. I am blind, tired, and not particularly brave tonight.” Footsteps approach slow, deliberate. Not a charge. Not a retreat. “I can guide you back,” you said. “The path curves left. There’s firmer ground.” Argul listens to the cadence of the words, the way the voice settles in the air. He considers. Trust is a fragile thing when sight has never been an option. After a moment, he exhales and extends his hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled.

Vulnerable.

“…Very well,” he says quietly. “But if you lead me astray, I hope you enjoy being cursed by a man who trips a lot and remembers voices forever.”

The ravine breathes below them.

The night waits.

And Argul chooses.