The shadow, ever the shadow. He watched her go. There was a twisted ache in his chest—did he leave her alone, or did he follow? Surely she grew tired of his company. Surely if he dashed off without telling Cen he'd be met with further setbacks—more trouble.

He gave her a solid headstart, nearly a full day, and then he decided he would follow. He did not need to see her to follow her. He was a ranger, and he was an excellent tracker, by scent or sight.

Days slipped by, but come morning on the third day, Aivar heard singing, and he watched the girl curiously. He did not know the words, but he liked the sound regardless.

What was she doing with the pelts? He didn't understand, but he watched from the treeline. He made no move to hide himself, but neither did he announce himself. Let her sing. Let her wash the pelts, if that was indeed what she was doing.