Good.
I step into the edge of the village, boots crunching lightly over debris, eyes moving constantly—doorways, rooftops, the space between structures where someone could still be hiding.
“Anyone here?” one of the soldiers calls out.
“Don’t shout,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
He flinches slightly, then nods.
“Right.”
I move toward the nearest structure, pushing the door open slowly with the back of my hand. It creaks, the sound too loud in the stillness, and I pause just inside the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Empty.
But not abandoned long.
There’s still warmth in the air, still the faint scent of cooked grain and smoke that hasn’t fully settled.
“They left recently,” I say over my shoulder.
“How can you tell?” the same soldier asks.
I gesture toward the table.
“Food’s still out,” I say. “Not spoiled yet.”
He steps closer, looking, then nods.
“Alright.”
I step back outside, scanning the rest of the settlement.
“They didn’t take everything,” I add. “That means they didn’t plan to leave.”
“So they were forced,” he says.
“Yes.”
A shift moves through the group behind me, subtle but real.
Not fear.
Awareness.
“Where would they go?” Verr asks.
I turn slightly, meeting his gaze.
“Depends how much warning they had,” I say. “If it was sudden, they’ll head for the nearest cover—tree lines, river bends, anything that breaks sight lines.”
“And if it wasn’t?”
“They’ll follow the old routes,” I reply. “The ones not marked anymore but still remembered.”
He studies me for a moment.
“You can track that.”
