“Eat,” he said, his voice a gruff, practical command that was a shield for his own turmoil. “The sooner we start, the sooner we arrive.”
They ate in a weighted silence, the intimacy of the previous night a tangible presence in the small chamber. Afterwards, they prepared to leave, moving with a quiet, shared purpose. Gessa sorted the rations while Ky filled the new waterskins, their movements complementary, needing no words. When all was packed, Ky pushed open the door. The crisp morning air greeted them like the first page of a new, uncertain chapter.
The journey from the cache felt different. The desperate edge of their survival was gone, replaced by the steady, plodding reality of a long trek. They were fully supplied now, with waterskins, dried rations, and proper gear. And Gessa wasarmed. As they prepared to leave, Ky watched her. The rest in the bolthole, the proper food, had worked a subtle magic. The deep exhaustion was gone from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. She moved with a new confidence, her limbs no longer trembling with weakness.
“I can walk today,” she said, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a request; it was a statement of fact.
He simply nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words. Out here, the lines between instructor and recruit dissolved. She was no longer a student to be managed. They set out side-by-side, Night padding silently behind them. After a long moment of walking in comfortable silence, Ky broke it, his tone holding a new, collaborative edge.
“Alright, Gessa,” he said quietly. “Forget the Academy drills for a moment. Out here, what do you see that’s useful?”
She didn’t have to search. Her gaze, which had been in constant motion, immediately settled on a fallen log. “See the three-leafed plant with the purple flower?” she said, pointing. “The roots are bitter, but if you boil them twice, they’re full of starch. Good energy for a long walk.” She then gestured to a spot near the base of an oak. “And those broad-leafed plants? Good for a fever, if you boil the leaves.”
“Useful knowledge,” Ky admitted, and it was a genuine admission. “My focus was always on the path, the threats, not what grew beside it.”
The quiet praise and the glimpse into the specialized mindset of a Spur made Gessa muse, her voice soft. “You must have seen so many strange plants on your journeys. All the places you’ve been.”
“A few,” he grunted, thinking of the Crimson Pitcher plants of the southern swamps and the Ghost Orchids of the Sunken Isles. His focus had never been on plants, though. It had alwaysbeen on the path, on the time, on the mission. “A Spurs’ journey isn’t for sightseeing. It’s about speed.”
The word “speed” brought the memory of their impossible, instantaneous journey back to the front of his mind. He glanced at her, walking confidently at his side, and the sheer scale of her power settled on him again. It was a mystery that broke every rule he knew, a puzzle for a safer time and place. He ruthlessly compartmentalized the thought. Now was for moving.
“Come on,” he said, his voice clipped. “This terrain will be hell in the dark. We need to make up ground.”
The terrain began to change as the day wore on. The dense, loamy forest gave way to rockier ground, with stands of hardy pine clinging to the slopes. The air grew thinner, carrying a hint of stone and high places. In the distance, the dark peaks of the Blackstone Mountains loomed like jagged teeth against the sky. They moved in a focused silence, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on loose shale and the occasional, almost inaudible pad of Night’s paws as he shadowed their steps, a ghost of a predator in a land of them.
They had been walking for hours when Ky stopped dead, his head lifting, his nostrils flaring. He held up a hand, stopping them instantly. Over the natural smell of pine and stone, he had caught it; the faint, unmistakable smell of stale woodsmoke. A scent that did not belong here.
He moved forward and found it: a recently abandoned campsite. He signaled Gessa closer, his voice dropping to a low, cold rumble.
“Look.” He pointed with his knife. “The fire is cold, but the ground is still damp beneath the ash. They left this morning.” He gestured to the mess. “The cook pot is overturned, but the sack of grain beside it is untouched. They weren’t hungry; they were surprised. They left in a hurry.”
He shifted his aim to a set of scuff marks in the dirt. “A struggle. But no blood. They were taken.”
He heard the sound then—the crude laughter of men, carried on the wind.
“Down!” he hissed, his voice a harsh whisper. He reacted on pure instinct, grabbing Gessa’s arm and pulling her with him into the dense cover of a thicket. He felt her go rigid under his hand, a sharp, instinctive flinch born of her past. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and shame warred with his urgency. He immediately eased his grip, turning the rough grab into a firm, steadying hand on her shoulder, a silent apology.
The sounds grew louder. A patrol of a half-dozen men swaggered into the clearing. They were a rough collection of humanity, wearing mismatched pieces of leather and iron armor over filthy tunics. Their faces were hard, bearded, and etched with the casual cruelty of men who took what they wanted. They carried notched axes and rusty swords, their hands familiar with violence.
“I swear, Torg, if you lost that silver locket...” one of them grumbled, kicking at the spilled contents of a pack.
“I didn’t lose it!” another, a hulking brute with a matted beard, shot back. “Must’ve fallen off when we were bundling up that whiny prospector.”
A third man laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “More like it fell out of your pocket when you were stuffing your face with his rations. Check your beard!”
Ky’s mind went cold and tactical. They were back for loot, not on patrol. They were dangerous, but they were sloppy.
They were pressed close together in the thicket. Beside them, Night had flattened himself to the earth, a seamless patch of shadow, his only movement the slow, silent twitch of an ear tracking the bandits’ progress. Ky felt Gessa shift, and he looked down. Her hand had gone to the hilt of her new sword, her bodya coiled spring of readiness. He squeezed her shoulder once.Wait.
She froze, her gaze meeting his, and he saw a flicker of understanding. She obeyed. Torg, the brute, grumbled to himself and moved dangerously close to their thicket to relieve himself against a tree. The first man snorted. “Leave it, Torg. A fancy thing like that was too good for a pig like you anyway.”
“Shut your mouth, Rilk,” Torg growled. “I won it fair from that cardsharp in Ironhold.”
“Hey, Torg!” the third man shouted from across the clearing. “Don’t get yourself lost in the bushes! We need someone to carry the loot, and your bladder’s the only thing bigger than your belly!”
The brute let out a bark of laughter at the crude joke, turning away from the thicket to rejoin his group as they continued their clumsy search.
They watched, holding their breath, until the patrol moved on, their harsh laughter fading into the woods. For a long moment after they were gone, Ky remained frozen, his hand still on her shoulder.
