Clean.
Final.
I exhale slowly, not letting the relief show.
“Alright,” I say, turning back to the group. “You—” I point to three of them, quick and decisive. “With me. The rest of you stay here and follow his orders.”
They move without arguing.
That’s new.
We move faster oncewe leave the main group.
Quieter, too.
The land shifts as we move, fields giving way to uneven patches of brush and low trees, the ground softer here, holding tracks longer if you know where to look.
“Here,” I say, crouching again.
One of them steps closer.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Look closer,” I reply, brushing aside a thin layer of leaves.
There.
Faint.
But there.
“Footprints,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Small.”
“Children,” I say.
That lands differently.
“Keep moving,” I add, pushing back to my feet.
We follow the trail as it bends toward a shallow tree line, the air cooler here, the shade thick enough to dull the heat pressing down from above. The scent shifts too—less ash, more damp earth, crushed leaves underfoot.
“Someone’s here,” I say quietly.
“How do you know?” another asks.
I gesture toward the ground.
“Too quiet,” I reply. “No animals. No movement.”
They go still behind me.
Good.
I step forward slowly, hands open, voice low.
