Arien stopped on the path and waited for Lyra to catch up. He had guided many travelers, but none who said so little. Without her words, he could send her the wrong way. He needed her trust, or this whole trip would fail. He pretended to check his pack. He pulled out an old compass with elf markings around its face. The needle spun, then settled. Lyra's eyes flicked to it, then away. She did not ask. That was her way. They walked on until they reached a strange metal booth standing alone in the grass. Its dome was rusted, etched with shapes Arien did not name. Lyra stopped without meaning to. Inside, behind cracked glass, sat a framed picture. A mother. A father. A small girl with pointed ears between them. Lyra's hand pressed flat against the glass. Her breath caught. "That's my mother's hair," she said. Quiet. Sure. Arien did not push. He set the compass on the ledge beside her hand. "It points where you point," he said. "But I need to know where." He watched her face. Not warmth. Just the right move at the right time. Lyra looked at him for a long moment. Then she said the name flat, the way one says a true thing. "Erevan's Rest." She did not look away. The deal between them had changed. She trusted him now — and he carried the weight of getting her there.