Ford at Little Hodcombe

The ford is a shallow crossing point where clear water runs over smooth stones, its banks wet with the trampling of hooves and boots. The earth here is compacted and dark, marked by recent passage as if the ground itself remembers the weight of armored riders. Beyond the ford, the path narrows into a dirt track that winds between hedgerows and half-timbered cottages, their eaves low and crooked under a sky heavy with pending rain. The ford’s crossing is abrupt but unremarkable—no bridge, no railings—just an ordinary point on a village road where water interrupts the route. Yet its mundanity sharpens the moment: a place of passage made violent. Tegan’s abrupt stop here, her breath ragged from flight, turns this crossing into a trap.