It folds in on itself, marked by footsteps, by voices rising and falling, by the slow tightening of the camp as something builds outside. I track what I can without moving too much—how often the guards shift, which direction the heaviest movement comes from, where the fires burn hotter and where they dim.
The larger structure to my left gets more traffic.
Command.
Or supply.
The perimeter thins slightly on the far side after each rotation.
Not a weakness.
A pattern.
Patterns can be used.
I shift my wrists again, slow, careful, feeling the rope give just a fraction more than before.
Almost.
Not yet.
The flap moves again.
I don’t look up this time.
I don’t need to.
The steps are wrong.
Heavier.
But not the same.
There’s a hesitation in them—a fraction of a second too long between strides, like whoever’s walking is thinking about where to place their feet instead of just doing it.
Not one of them.
Good.
I keep my head down.
Wait.
The guard at the entrance shifts.
“You’re late,” he grunts.
A pause.
Then—
“Front line ran long,” the voice replies, roughened, irritated.
Familiar.
Not in sound.
In shape.
