The afternoon sun dropped toward the western peaks, turning the cloud floor below the moths the color of tarnished pewter. Ahead of them, where the southern gorge opened onto a high tableland tucked under the dark wall of the northern ridge, plumes of white steam rose from a tangle of hot springs and black sedge.
Osha did not close the notebook yet. She flipped two more unglued pages, holding the book close to her spectacles as the light thinned.
“There is more here about the reliquary,” she called across the wing-beat gap. “About why Edris needed my father’s expedition notes from Falling Bells.”
At the name of the battle, Ashaun’s stone left forearm pressed harder against the hemp girth cord, though her face did not change. “Say it plain, Sister.”
“My father asked why the temple spends so much gold chasing rural rumors if it cannot breed a seed itself,” Osha said. “Because once a true seed forms in the wild, it stays soft to outside expectation for years. If a priesthood catches a young god early—or surrounds it with terrified villagers who beg for the same miracle every morning—devotion hardens those answers into permanent organs. That is why the order collects strange beasts and rewrites founding stories before a young god knows its own shape.”
