They came at last to a creek, babbling, clear, mossed. Grace dipped her hands; Lucy cupped water and drank; Serena voiced quiet thanks. They refilled flasks. He noticed marks on two stones near the bank, etched lines, circular motion, arrows pointing toward the water's flow. The trail had extended here, made for crossing. A ferry point. A turning point.
They tracked upstream, chance guiding them, until at last the canopy broke and they stepped into a clearing beside a large spring. Water pooled in a hidden delving cauldron, deep, still, dark in color with a sheen of oil under sunlight. Here were more tokens, bundles of roots tied to stakes, pendent shells, carved wood. Signs of ritual or offering, older than their own. Jude examined the stones circling the basin: miniature pillars, repeating faces in relief. Some were weathered into erasure; others were fresh. The newest had Emily's carved spiral; another held a swirl representing Lucy's token. They were invited.
