The barracks was visible to his left as he turned onto the road, some of the knights were already up, moving around in the early light, the sounds of morning routine carrying across the courtyard.
Someone was at the water trough. Someone else was sharpening something, the sound of it carrying a rhythm. Darion kept his eyes on the road ahead and let them get on with it.
He wasn't sure they noticed him because if they did they would have shouted their greetings. He was moving like a assassin by the way, silent and mostly unheard.
The journey settled into itself the way long solo rides did, like when he had rode out to Valdenmoor for the first infiltration: the horse finding its pace, the road unreeling ahead, the sky lightening gradually from dark to the flat grey of early morning.
He ate on the horseback when the sun was properly up, one hand on the reins, the food from Maret's pack better than road food had any right to be.
