Cian woke before the others. He dressed in his civilian clothes—the brown coat Cinder had given him, sturdy trousers, boots he had broken in during training. His swordspear was strapped to his back, the wrapped blade pressing against his shoulder blade. His badge was in his inner pocket. His knife was on his belt.
He checked his pack one last time: water skin, dried rations, medical kit, rope, signal whistle, map, flint, a small sewing kit. Everything in its place.
Voss was waiting at the exit tunnel. He wore a grey coat, no insignia. His weapon was a long double-edged sword, the hilt wrapped in dark leather, the blade hidden in a cloth scabbard. His pack was smaller than the others—he traveled lighter than anyone.
Echo arrived with her pack, a leather satchel across her chest for papers and maps. She carried no visible weapon, but Cian had seen her spar. Her hands and feet were her tools, and she moved like water over stone.
Cinder came last, yawning, his heavy greatsword wrapped and strapped across his back. The blade was nearly as long as Cian was tall, its width suggesting weight that would break a normal man's back. Cinder carried it like it weighed nothing.
Wraith appeared from the shadows, already hooded, her face invisible. Twin daggers hung at her belt, and a short sword was strapped across her lower back, hidden beneath her coat.
Voss looked at them. "Move out."
They stepped into the morning light.
The trail wound through Klient's gentle hills. The sun was low, casting long shadows. Birds called from the trees. In the distance, Cian could see a farmer's wagon on a dirt road, heading south.
Cinder walked beside him. "Last chance to turn back," he said, grinning.
"Is that an option?"
"No."
They walked in silence for a while. Echo was at the front with Voss, consulting a map. Wraith moved somewhere ahead—Cian could not see her, but Voss seemed to know where she was.
Cian watched the landscape. The hills were green, the soil dark. Farmers worked the fields. A shepherd guided his flock across a shallow stream. It was peaceful. Ordinary. He wondered how long that would last.
Echo stopped at a stone marker. "Arden," she said.
The province was different. The hills were wider, the grass taller. Horse farms dotted the landscape—white fences, long barns, pastures with grazing mares. The air smelled of hay and leather.
Cinder pointed to a distant farm. "Best horses in the kingdom. Shame we're walking."
"Walking keeps you alive," Voss said. "Horses get tired, make noise, leave tracks."
They continued south. The road was dirt, well-traveled but empty. A lone rider passed them heading north, nodded, moved on. Cian noted the rider's face, the color of his horse, the direction he came from. Old habit.
Echo glanced at him. "You're observing."
"Always."
Voss called a halt at a small grove—oaks and birches, shade from the sun. They sat on fallen logs or the grass. No fire. Cold rations only.
Cian unwrapped his dried meat and hard bread. The bread was stale, the meat tough. He chewed slowly, drinking water from his skin.
Cinder leaned against a tree. "Remember the last time we went south, Voss? Those sand crawlers in the desert?"
"I remember you screaming."
"That was a battle cry."
"It was screaming."
Echo smiled—a rare expression, quick and gone. She ate in silence, her eyes scanning the tree line.
Wraith was not with them. Cian assumed she was watching the road.
Voss finished his rations, stood. "Ten minutes. Then we move."
They had been walking for hours when Echo raised her hand. Voss stopped. The squad froze.
Echo crouched, studying the ground. "Wagon tracks. Fresh. Two, maybe three days old." She pointed to the ruts in the dirt. "Heavy. Going south."
Cinder looked at the tracks. "Supplies?"
"Or people." Echo traced the wheel marks with her finger. "Deep ruts. Carrying weight. Could be traders. Could be something else."
Voss looked at Cian. "What do you see?"
Cian stepped forward, crouched beside Echo. He studied the tracks. The ruts were even, not wobbling—a skilled driver. The spacing between wheel marks was standard for military wagons, not civilian carts. He pointed to a hoofprint beside the ruts. "Riders. At least four. Escorts."
Echo nodded. "Good."
Voss straightened. "We follow. Quietly. Wraith, scout ahead."
A rustle in the grass, and Wraith was gone.
They found a campsite in a hollow, surrounded by low hills. No fire—Voss forbade it. They ate cold rations again, sitting in a circle, voices low.
Cian's legs ached. His shoulders were sore from the weight of his pack and swordspear. But he was not the most tired. Cinder had taken point for the last hour, walking faster than the others, and he was rubbing his calves.
"Obsidian," Voss said. "First watch. Two hours. Then Echo."
Cian nodded. He moved to the edge of the hollow, found a spot with a view of the approach, and sat. His swordspear was across his knees. The knife was loose in its sheath.
The stars came out. The wind rustled the grass. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
He thought about the wagon tracks. Military spacing. Riders. Going south—toward the Southern Desert, toward Urple, toward the border.
He did not know if they were connected to the signal fires. But he would remember.
Echo relieved him after two hours. He lay down on his blanket, closed his eyes, and slept.
He woke once. Echo was still on watch, her silhouette motionless against the stars. Cinder snored softly. Voss breathed slow and even. Wraith was somewhere in the dark.
Cian stared at the sky. The stars were different here—farther south, the constellations shifted. He had read about that in a book, once. Now he was seeing it.
He thought about the mission. The governor of Urple, scared. The lights in the desert. The tracks on the road.
He thought about the fragments in his journal, hidden in his cave. This mission was not about them. But every step south was a step away from the base, away from the familiar, toward something unknown.
He closed his eyes and slept until dawn.