Years passed. The world didn't turn faster, but it turned clearer.
The maps began to fill again—not with borders or claims, but with names of places remembered. The Festival by the Sea. The Three-Crescent Hill. The Ember Path. None were official, but all were understood. And somewhere, on one of these ever-changing maps, a wandering spiral wound across half the continent, not drawn by any one hand but traced by many.
Cruzer and Elara grew older, though time was kind to them. Not because of any magic or artifact, but because they had kept moving. Restless, yes, but with purpose. They had learned long ago that stillness could mean stagnation, and that peace was not the absence of struggle—it was the choice to walk through struggle together.
