They left at dusk.
Gorvax walked under his own power for the first time in over a week, leaning on a staff Vren had carved for him. The staff had a Crimson Hide tooth set into the head—Vren's idea, half practical, half ceremonial. Gorvax had accepted it with a small, formal bow that had clearly meant something neither of them had bothered to translate.
The first night, they made twelve kilometers.
Owen was suppressing again, holding his CE down to 4,200 to mask Gorvax's slowly recovering signature beneath his own. Yalira ranged ahead, scouting drone patterns. Tessa took rear guard. Jorik moved point with Owen, the broken arm still favoring slightly but functional.
By the second sunrise, they'd reached the first hide site—a collapsed rock formation Yalira had mapped during her old scouting runs. They slept in shifts through the heat of the day. Drank carefully. Ate Crimson Hide jerky.
The second night they made fifteen kilometers.
The third night, eighteen.
