Cian woke to grey light. His body was adjusting to the rhythm of the road—stiff in the mornings, loosening after an hour of walking. His boots were holding up, though the leather was scuffed and the soles were wearing.
The others were already stirring. Cinder stretched, groaned, pulled on his boots. Echo folded her blanket with military precision. Voss stood at the edge of the camp, scanning the horizon. Wraith was gone, as always.
"We're close to the Dunseu border," Echo said, consulting her map. "Another day, maybe two. The terrain will change. More water, fewer roads, slower going."
Voss nodded. "We follow the tracks. Wraith says they're still heading south."
They ate cold rations in silence. The bread was harder now, the dried meat chewier. Cian chewed slowly, conserving his water.
Cinder looked at the sky. "No clouds. Good day for walking."
"Every day is a good day for walking," Voss said, "because the alternative is staying still."
They moved out.
The tracks were easier to read now. The soil had changed—darker, more clay, holding impressions longer. Cian walked beside Echo, studying the ruts.
"They're not trying to hide," he said.
Echo nodded. "Either they don't think anyone will follow, or they want to be followed."
"Which is worse?"
"Both."
Wraith appeared ahead, her hand raised. "Camp. Abandoned. Half a mile off the track."
Voss signaled. The squad slowed, spreading out.
The campsite was perhaps eighty feet across, well-hidden from the main track by a stand of twisted trees. Wraith circled it once, then nodded. "Empty. No movement. Left three, maybe four days ago."
Voss signaled. The squad spread out, checking the perimeter.
Cian stayed with Echo, who knelt by the fire pit. The ashes were cold, but there were signs of recent use—charred wood, food scraps, a discarded tin cup with a dented rim.
"Three or four days," Echo said. "They weren't careful."
Cinder picked up a scrap of cloth from the ground. It was dark green, wool, with a torn edge and a singed corner. He held it up. "This isn't Lumerian weave."
Echo took it, examined it against the light. "Marina. Their military uses green wool for winter uniforms. The stitching is distinctive."
Voss's jaw tightened. "Marina."
Cian was already moving to the tent stakes. There were six of them, arranged in two rows—two large tents, maybe sleeping twelve to sixteen total. He counted impressions in the soil: boot prints, dozens of them, overlapping, some deeper than others.
He closed his eyes, visualizing the scene as it might have been. Then he opened them. "At least fifteen people. Maybe eighteen. They stayed two nights. Ate well—I see meat bones, not just ration scraps. And they had a leader who kept separate."
Echo looked at him. "How do you know?"
Cian pointed. "The boot prints around the fire are scattered, casual. People moving freely. But here—" he pointed to a set of prints leading to a separate tent stake, away from the others, "—these are deeper, more deliberate. No one else walked that path. The leader's tent was apart from the group."
Voss studied the prints. "Good."
Echo found something else—a scrap of paper, half-burned, caught in a thorn bush near the edge of the camp. She unfolded it carefully with the tip of her knife. The writing was in a script Cian did not recognize, but Echo did.
"Marina military dispatch," she said, her voice low. "Partial. Something about the gate and midnight." She looked at Voss. "Same as the note in Obsidian's drill."
Cian remembered. The observation drill in Yard Three—the scrap of paper with three words: Desert gate midnight. The same phrasing. The same hand, perhaps.
Cinder swore under his breath. "So it's real. Marina is moving on our soil."
"Not proof yet," Voss said. "But close."
Echo pulled out her satchel and began working with practiced efficiency. She sketched the campsite layout on a fresh page of paper, noting the positions of the fire pit, tent stakes, discarded items, and the direction of the tracks leading out.
She wrapped the torn green cloth in a separate pouch, sealing it with wax. She placed the half-burned dispatch in a waxed envelope, labeling it with the date and location.
"Forensic documentation," she said to Cian without looking up. "Secure evidence so it can't be tampered. Chain of custody matters if this goes to trial."
Cian watched her work, noting each motion. "You've done this before."
"Many times." She glanced at him. "You'll learn."
Voss stood at the edge of the camp, scanning the grassland to the south. "We need to keep moving. If they're only three or four days ahead, we might catch them before they reach the desert."
Cinder hefted his greatsword. "Catch them and do what?"
"Identify. Report. Intervene if necessary." Voss looked at the squad. "We're not an army. We don't engage unless we have to. But we need to know what they're planning."
He turned to Cian. "Obsidian, you're on observation. Watch the ground, watch the tree line, watch the sky. If something moves, you see it first."
Cian nodded.
Echo finished her documentation, packed her satchel, and stood. Wraith had scouted ahead and returned, appearing silently at Voss's shoulder.
"The tracks continue south," Wraith said, her voice low and rough. "Toward the marsh. They're moving faster now—less weight, or more urgency."
Voss looked at the sky. The sun was beginning to lower, painting the grass in gold and long shadows.
"We push forward. We walk until dark, then find high ground and rest. Tomorrow, we cross into Dunseu."
Cinder groaned. "More walking."
"Yes."
They left the campsite behind. Cian glanced back once, committing the scene to memory. The cold fire pit. The torn green cloth. The boot prints overlapping. The dispatch about the gate and midnight.
He would remember.
They walked until the light turned orange, then purple, then grey. Wraith found a ridge—dry ground, elevated, with a view of the marsh to the south. The air was cooler now, almost cold, carrying the smell of standing water and decay.
No fire. Cold rations again. They sat in a circle, voices low.
Cian's legs ached. His shoulders were sore. But he was not the most tired. Cinder had taken point for the last two hours, and he was rubbing his calves.
"Obsidian," Voss said. "First watch. Two hours. Then Echo."
Cian moved to the edge of the ridge, his swordspear across his knees. The marsh lay before him, dark and still, stretching south as far as he could see. Somewhere beyond it, the desert. Somewhere beyond that, the border with Urple.
He thought about the campsite. The Marina wool. The dispatch. The leader who kept separate. The words desert gate midnight.
He thought about the governor of Urple, scared, asking for help.
He thought about his own role—observer, recorder, witness. He could not fight like the others. But he could see. He could remember. He could piece together what others missed.
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 journey. Over a week down. Five more weeks to go, at least. The road was long, the days were hard, and the evidence they had found pointed to something he did not yet understand.
Tomorrow, they would enter Dunseu. In two weeks, maybe three, they would reach the desert. In a month and a half, they would reach Urple.
He closed his eyes and slept until dawn.