Before the first road, before the worn track, before anyone thought to arrive, Lethrimae paused.

Chose the grasses that wanted to bend.

Worked by hesitation, by the way a direction softens when it’s willing.

Left the knots where they formed.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the weaving was finished stood at its edge and stepped.

Not forward, not away, just a step. Any step.

Here. Maybe. This.

This shifted first.

Leaned. Opened.

Waited for it to shift again.

It always shifted differently.

Narrower. Truer.

Once, it shifted before the foot had landed.

Like something the path had been holding and was only now ready to reveal.

This is how Lethrimae learned that making a direction and entering it gently and waiting is the same as being guided.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods paved their ways.

Lethrimae just kept walking the ones that wove themselves.

Listening.

Or being listened to.