It's served me well for centuries.
It's killing me now.
The ridge comes into view an hour before dawn, a natural vantage point that overlooks the main pass through the mountains. I've used it before, back when these routes were mine to guard instead of navigate. Before everything changed. Before I learned that good intentions and ancient power make a poison that can destroy everything you're trying to protect.
I dismount, letting my horse graze while I settle into position among the rocks. The pass stretches below me like a scar through the corrupted landscape, winding between peaks that scrape the belly of gray clouds.
That's when I see them.
Six soldiers. Maybe eight. Moving in tight formation down the far slope, their pace measured and deliberate. Not the loose sprawl of a patrol or the urgency of messengers. Something else.
A cart rolls between them, wheels turning with mechanical precision over the rough ground. Two figures sit in the back, heads down, shoulders curved inward. The posture of defeat. Of resignation.
Prisoners.
I shift position, drawing a collapsing spyglass from my pack. The lens brings them into sharp focus—professional soldiers in unmarked leather, weapons worn but well-maintained. The kind of men who follow orders without asking questions, who transport cargo without caring what's inside.
The wind shifts, catching at loose fabric. One of the hooded figures sways slightly, and for just a moment, her hood slips back.
Violet hair catches the morning light like a banner.
The spyglass doesn't waver in my hands. My breathing doesn't change. Centuries of practice have taught me to observe without reacting, to catalog information before emotion can interfere with judgment.
But I note it. The unusual color. In a world where survival means silence, purple hair is either defiance—or bait.
I don't follow the thought. Not yet. It's not mine to name.
I just watch. Record. Prepare to report what I've seen without the weight of what it might mean pressing against my ribs.
The convoy disappears around a bend in the path, swallowed by twisted trees and morning mist. I remain in position for another quarter hour, making sure they don't double back, that this isn't some elaborate trap or misdirection.
When I'm certain they're gone, I pack my equipment and mount my horse for the ride back to camp.
By the time I crest the final ridge, the others have nearly finished preparing for the day's ride. Horses stomping impatiently. Packs secured with military efficiency. The orderly chaos of a group that's learned to move as one.
Callum stands near the center of it all, gesturing toward his map with confident authority. "The main pass is the obvious route," he's saying to a cluster of warriors. "But obvious means watched. We should take the northern approach, avoid unnecessary contact."
I don't announce myself. Don't interrupt his tactical assessment. I just stop at the edge of the group and wait for him to notice me, the way I've been doing for centuries whenever lesser commanders need to feel important.
When he finally looks up, I keep my voice level. Matter-of-fact.
"There's a convoy on the main pass. Six soldiers. Clean formation. Moving with purpose."
Callum barely glances at his map, his dismissal swift and calculated. "Not worth the engagement. We maintain our route."
"They're transporting prisoners," I add as Kaia and the others approach, drawn by the discussion. "Cart. Bound figures."
"Still irrelevant to our objectives," Callum says, his tone sharpening with authority. "Any deviation would compromise our timeline, regardless of their direction."
Something cold settles in my chest at how smoothly he writes off potential captives. How his logic feels rehearsed, too clean.
"Prisoners should be freed," I say, my voice carrying more weight than before.
Callum’s mouth curves, not in amusement, but like a man calculating how much morality he can afford. "Noble sentiment. Poor tactics. We can't rescue everyone we encounter."
I watch his face carefully, noting the calculated nature of his responses. The way he positions himself as the voice of reason while discarding lives with surgical precision.
Something's not right.
