So they turn north.
Into colder hills. Into old signs carved where no one should be watching. Into ground that feels less abandoned the longer they remain on it.
The road to Lorn is no longer a destination. It is pressure. Every mile narrows. Every choice costs more than it should.
The horses are failing.
Sleep is failing.
Mercy, trust, and duty are beginning to pull against each other.
By the time the trees give way, the danger is no longer behind them.
It is waiting in the open.
And what is found among their own belongings may matter less than who is standing there to claim it.
They burst out of the trees onto a road, wide and well-traveled, cutting north through the hills. They were on foot now, cloaks torn by brush, boots slick with mud and stream water.
“We made it!” Galot gasped.
Malak’s stomach dropped.
He read the road in one look: the width of it, the cleared sight lines, the way the verge had been cut back like brush from a fence line, not for the comfort of travelers but to make sure nothing moved along it unseen.
Not escape.
This was the road to Lorn. Patrols ran it in every season. Nothing moved on it unseen.
Wilderness was survival.
This road was the Covenant’s reach.
The first snow had begun to fall, thin and wind-driven, whitening the road between the trees.
“Keep moving,” he ordered.
Torches flared to life on both sides of the road.
Malak's hand moved toward his sword.
Garred caught his wrist.
"Reaching for your sword looks very bad."
Coming soon: Reflections, background, and thoughts from the trail.