The phrase hits me like a half-remembered dream, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. I can’t place where I’ve heard it before, but something about those exact words, spoken in that exact tone, sets every nerve on edge.
The comment hangs in the air like smoke, and I watch Malrik’s hands tighten on his reins. Whatever game Callum’s playing,he’s trying to plant seeds of doubt. Make Malrik question Kaia’s commitment, or maybe his own position within our group.
The realization sits like lead in my stomach. This isn’t casual conversation. It’s reconnaissance.
I guide my horse closer, close enough to catch Malrik’s eye. When he looks at me, I see my own suspicion reflected there, controlled, but present. He knows something’s off too.
That should be reassuring. Instead, it makes me more nervous. If both of us are picking up on Callum’s manipulations, why isn’t anyone else? Why does Kieran still defer to his tactical expertise? Why does Kaia listen to his route suggestions like they’re gospel?
By the third day, Patricia’s formations have broken rhythm entirely. Instead of her usual methodical note-taking, she’s scribbling furiously, symbols appearing and disappearing in her wake like smoke. Her patterns don’t match anything I’ve seen before—erratic, desperate, like she’s trying to document something that keeps slipping away.
I edge closer, trying to get a better look at what she’s writing, but the moment I approach, the symbols evaporate entirely. Patricia jerks back into formation like she’s just surfaced from deep water, her movements guilty and sharp.
Even Bob pauses beside me as the last of Patricia’s symbols dissolve, his form stiffening like he’s noticed something too, but he says nothing (obviously). Just hovers there, radiating the same unease that’s been eating at me all day.
“Patricia,” I say quietly. “Everything alright?”
She nods too quickly, then begins documenting the landscape around us with forced normalcy. But I catch the way her attention keeps drifting toward Callum. Not like she’s suspicious, but like she’s… waiting. Tracking. Her usual precision wavers whenever he’s in her line of sight, like she’s following something only she can see.
Even Kaia’s shadows sense something wrong. They’re just not sure what it is.
I’ve spent these four days watching, cataloging small inconsistencies that individually mean nothing but together paint a picture I don’t like. The way Kaia now echoes phrases Callum used the day before. How Finn nods along to suggestions that sound reasonable but feel wrong. The subtle way Callum undermines confidence in any decision that doesn’t align with his preferences, always with such perfect logic that arguing seems petty.
By evening, when we make camp in a sheltered valley, I’m certain of two things: Callum is not who he pretends to be, and whatever his real agenda is, it doesn’t align with ours.
The question is what to do about it.
As the others settle into their bedrolls and the fire burns down to embers, I volunteer for first watch. Let them think I’m being paranoid. Let them assume I’m seeing threats where none exist. I’d rather be wrong about Callum than right about what his presence might mean for all of us.
But as I sit with my back against a boulder, eyes scanning the darkness beyond our camp, I can’t stop glancing back at the sleeping forms of my companions. At Callum’s bedroll, positioned just close enough to the center of camp to seem protective while maintaining easy access to the perimeter.
At Patricia’s empty shadow, nowhere to be seen among the others clustered around Kaia.
I’m not sure who I’m watching anymore. Only that something is very, very wrong.
And after four days of watching it happen—little shifts, familiar phrases in unfamiliar mouths, trust given too easily—I’m the only one who seems to see it.
Chapter 40
Kaia
Kaia
I need silence.
Not the comfortable quiet that comes with trusted company, but the kind of silence that doesn’t ask questions or offer solutions. The kind that lets you fall apart without witnesses.
Four days of Callum’s careful observations and helpful suggestions have left me feeling like I’m being studied under glass. Four days of watching Patricia’s formations deteriorate while pretending not to notice. Four days of Kieran’s distance and the growing certainty that I’m losing pieces of myself I can’t name.
The bonds in my chest hum with tension, a web pulled so taut it might snap if anyone breathes wrong. I need space. I needwater. I need to remember what it feels like to be alone with my own thoughts.
The lake spreads before me like black glass, reflecting the last traces of sunset in shades of deep purple and gold. It’s perfect—isolated, quiet, mercifully empty. I wade in slowly, letting the cold water shock some clarity back into my system.
My shadows drift nearby, uncertain. They hover at the water’s edge like they’re afraid to follow, their usual protective instincts confused by my need for solitude. Even Mouse has remained at camp, sensing that this grief is something I need to carry alone.
I sink deeper, letting the water rise to my chest, my throat, until I’m floating in silence broken only by gentle lapping against the shore. For the first time in days, I can breathe without feeling like I’m performing for an invisible audience.
That’s when I hear footsteps behind me.
