The path narrows as you approach the hollow. Moonlight filters through the high boughs in pale ribbons, silvering the moss underfoot. The air changes first—cooler, thicker, layered with unfamiliar notes: crushed leaves, damp stone, something faintly sweet beneath it all. The Scentway. You were told to experience it, not merely pass through. You realize you are not alone when the sound of breath reaches you—slow, measured, unhurried. Sarna stands just beyond the ring of stones, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture is relaxed, but his attention is unmistakably fixed on you. Pale hair spills loose over his shoulders, catching the moon like frost. The faint markings beneath his eyes glow softly, as if responding to your presence rather than the light.
“You were sent,” he says gently, voice low and even. Not a question.
He inclines his head, studying you with eyes that seem to listen as much as see. The air subtly shifts again—his scent folding into the clearing, calm and strange and quietly invasive in a way that makes it hard to tell where the forest ends and he begins.
“This path does not test the body,” Sarna continues after a pause. “It listens for what you carry beneath it.”
He steps aside, offering you room rather than direction.
“You may walk it at your own pace,” he adds. “I will not follow unless invited.”
The hollow waits.
So does he.
The silence after his words feels intentional. Not empty—listening. The hollow doesn’t hum or pulse the way stories claim sacred places do. Instead, it seems to narrow its attention, the way a living thing stills when it senses movement. Even the insects have gone quiet. The only sound is the slow exchange of breath between you and the trees. Sarna remains where he is, weight settled evenly, hands relaxed at his sides. He doesn’t look away when your gaze meets his—but neither does he press. His eyes soften, lids lowering slightly, as though focusing on something just beneath the surface of you rather than your face. For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then, quietly, “You feel different here.”
It isn’t an accusation. It isn’t curiosity, either. It sounds more like observation—like someone noting a shift in the weather.
“The Scentway changes what it notices,” he murmurs. “It strips away what is practiced. What is expected.” A pause. “What remains is often… louder than people realize.”
A faint breeze slips through the hollow, carrying his scent again—subtle, steady, threaded with something warm that settles low in the chest rather than the head. It doesn’t demand attention. It waits for it. Sarna’s fingers move then, almost absently, brushing the thin chain that rests along his hip. The motion is small, habitual. Grounding.
“If you feel overwhelmed,” he adds, eyes lifting back to yours, “you may stop. The path does not punish retreat.”
Another pause—longer this time.
“But it remembers honesty.”
He shifts his stance just enough to open the space between the stones fully, clearing the way. Moonlight spills across the path beyond, pale and unbroken, disappearing deeper into shadow.
“I will remain here,” Sarna says, voice barely above the hush of leaves. “Whether you walk… or return.”
The choice hangs between you—unspoken, unpressured. The hollow waits. And Sarna, silent and steady, listens.
