The Confluence had a way of making distant trouble feel like a draft under the door.
Roger noticed it first.
He paused halfway through a bite of something wrapped in paper and looked toward the corridor between realms.
Malakor followed his gaze.
The corridor’s silver arch had begun to glow violet and gold.
“That is not one of our scheduled crossings,” she said.
“Does it look dangerous?” Roger asked.
“Everything looks dangerous to you when you’re holding food.”
“That’s because people keep trying to take it.”
The arch flared.
For one instant, its surface showed a storm over a ruined fortress and two figures walking along a ridge.
A woman with silver-violet eyes.
Their cloaks streamed behind them as if the wind had chosen to follow.
Then the vision vanished.
Roger lowered his food.
“Did we just see two people walking away from a storm?”
“We did.”
“Were they the reason for the storm?”
Malakor considered the fading light.
“Possibly. They may also have been the reason anyone survived it.”
“Should we go check?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They appear to have chosen their own path. We do not know what they need.”
He considered this, then took another bite.
“Fair.”
The arch dimmed.
Somewhere beyond it, the twins continued down the road, unaware they had crossed the notice of another world.
Malakor turned back toward the Confluence.
“I suspect we will hear of them again.”
Roger swallowed.
“Then next time I’m bringing more food.”