The wind tore the last trace of the Thinman's passage apart.
For one beat, nothing moved.
The trader group kept walking. Their sled runners hissed over packed snow. Lantern light shook against the rock wall. The seam in the stone looked dead again, only weathering, only frost, only an ordinary scar in the mountain.
Sylara was the first to break the stillness.
"Explain."
Her voice came out low and sharp enough to cut skin. There was no laughter in it now. No performance. No lazy amusement stretched over danger. She stood close, bow still in hand, eyes fixed on the seam where the man had vanished.
Draven did not answer immediately.
He went still.
Not stunned. Not angry. Still in the way a blade became still after finding unexpected resistance. His eyes traced the rock face once, then the trader group, then the snow, then the angle of the path behind them. In the space where most people needed outrage, he rebuilt structure.
The Thinman had not panicked.
He had corrected route.
