They met at the river crossing without planning it.
A break in the trees opened to pale water running over stone. The current was cold and quick. In the dark, it caught bits of starlight and the glow from lanterns on both sides.
No one liked to cross at night.
Still, neither caravan turned away when they saw the other’s lights.
On one bank stood the Green-road wagons, heavy with fresh-cut timber. The wheels were worn, the wood still smelling of resin and spruce. Across from them, the Blue-road train sat in neat order—barrels of salt beside crates of glass packed carefully in straw.
They watched each other across the water, took the measure of it, and came to the same conclusion.
They would wait.
So they made camp.
Wheels were chocked. Oxen were unyoked and led down to drink. Their breath rose in slow clouds in the night air. Fires were set low between rings of river stone, burning steady and quiet.
There was no trouble between the groups. There rarely is at a crossing. Everyone knows better.
As the night settled, the leaders drifted toward the same fire.
No one called them over. It just happens that way. The ones who carry the weight of the road tend to find each other when they finally sit down.
A few guards stood back in the dark. Teamsters lingered where they could listen without being part of it. Someone brought out a squat glass jug, sealed with wax.
Dragon Drink.
The first cups passed without much effect. Talk stayed simple. Roads. Prices. Weather. The kind of things said to pass time more than to share anything real.
The second round loosened things. Laughter came easier. A story made the rounds again and no one minded hearing it.
By the third, something shifted.
It started small.
A man with ink on his hands pressed his palm to the ground. A pebble trembled, then rolled a short distance. A few green sparks slipped off his fingers and faded before they touched the dirt.
No one made much of it.
A woman with rings along her fingers flicked her wrist. A line of blue light traced the rim of her cup, then disappeared. A few people noticed. A few smiled.
The jug went around again.
More hands lifted.
A small cluster of orange sparks hovered for a moment over a boot before winking out. A stone slid an inch, then stopped. Yellow flashed once and was gone.
Each working left its color behind for just a breath.
At the edge of the firelight, the animal keepers watched.
They stood among the oxen, quiet, saying nothing. The animals chewed slowly, steady as ever. The keepers knew what they were seeing. They had seen it before.
It would build.
Back at the fire, it did.
No one announced it. No one suggested it. But the small tricks stopped being enough.
A crate shifted. Lifted just clear of the ground, then dropped back with a dull sound. A faint violet haze lingered around it for a moment.
Someone laughed, a little too loud.
A barrel rolled on its own, then rocked back into place. Blue and green moved along its edge, not blending, just crossing over one another.
The drink went around again.
Voices slowed. Words stretched. The fire seemed farther away than it was. The night pressed closer.
The colors stayed longer now.
Then one of the older wizards moved.
He had not spoken much before that. He set his cup aside, leaned forward, and placed both hands on the ground.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a wagon creaked.
At first it sounded like wood settling. Then the wheels turned slightly, though no one touched them. The oxen hitched to it shifted, uneasy.
The wagon lifted.
Slowly. Steadily. Not forced. It rose like something finding its place in water. Red and orange showed beneath it, while a steady blue held it in place.
The voices around the fire died out.
Across from him, the other caravan’s wizard smiled.
He did not stand. He only raised a hand.
The second wagon answered.
It lifted faster, cleaner. Yellow flashed first, then violet bent around the wheels as they cleared the ground. For a moment, both wagons hung there, still hitched, oxen blinking in confusion.
The colors moved across them, separate and shifting.
Then it ended.
The wagons settled back onto the earth.
No one tried to go further.
Around the fire, people leaned back where they sat. Some lay down without meaning to. Others closed their eyes mid sentence and never finished.
The last sparks faded.
At the edge of the camp, the animal keepers stayed awake.
They watched the light disappear. Watched the air grow still again. The oxen settled. The shifting stopped.
By the time the moon stood high, there was nothing left.
No sparks.
No glow.
No color at all.
The place felt empty.
Not quiet.
Just… used.
The keepers looked at one another in the dark and said nothing.
They would cross in the morning.