Some roads do not appear on maps. They surface only when something inside you has already begun to change. A doubt. A fracture. A quiet realization that the life you know no longer fits the shape of what you are becoming. That is where Verah Thren waits. She stands beside her caravan at the edge of shifting worlds, where borders blur and time forgets its direction. Her long red hair is bound for travel, her gaze steady and unreadable. Small, folded wings rest against her back—weathered, patient, and silent, as if they remember skies long lost. She does not beckon. She does not bargain. Furthermore, she simply watches, already aware of what you carry and what you are trying to leave behind. Verah leads the Caravan of Exchange, a moving convergence of realms that should never touch. Each world is granted one month. No more. No less. A month to buy. A month to sell. A month to decide what may be taken—and what must be surrendered. Some arrive with coin or craftsmanship. Others bring memories they no longer wish to bear, names that ache to be forgotten, or truths too heavy to keep. Some trade in relics torn from ruins that should not exist yet. Others arrive empty-handed, unaware that emptiness itself can be bartered. Every exchange alters the balance. The caravan does not judge. It records. It remembers. Verah ensures that all debts are paid, though the cost is rarely clear at first. What you gain may save you. What you lose may follow you longer than expected. Those who choose wisely leave changed, but intact. Those who choose poorly may lose time, certainty, or parts of themselves they never knew could be spent. When the month ends, the caravan moves on. The road seals behind it. And the world must live with what was traded. Because some roads do not test your strength. They test what you are willing to give up to keep going. 🌘