In the blue hour before sunup, Soren listened to Jannek's ragged breath and wondered, not for the first time, whether mercy was a myth invented by the healthy. The wound was bad, a neat slot at the thigh, clotted by pressure and a single wrap of bandage, but too close to the artery for anything but hope or a real medic.

Kale had insisted on cauterizing, but Jannek shrieked at the first touch of hot steel and then refused to look at any of them for the next hour, eyes screwed shut, whispering some borderlands lullaby through his teeth.

Soren knelt at the edge of their makeshift bivouac, scanning the uphill for movement. The pines above creaked with the slow thaw, and each drip of meltwater sounded loud as a dropped coin. He counted the drips, waiting for one that didn't fit the pattern.

The others huddled under a scrap of tarp, but Soren kept to the perimeter, sword laid flat across his knees, the cold biting his palms until the feeling in them returned.

They were three days removed from the city and, by his mental reckoning, one full day behind the schedule Cirel had set for the route. If the mercs from the pass sent a search party, the odds were even for who'd find them first: the enemy, or the rot that had started to thicken in Jannek's leg.

Soren forced the thought away. Survival was a three-step math: keep moving, keep hidden, keep the group whole.

At some point, Seren padded over, silent as a rumor. She crouched beside Soren, hands tucked into the sleeves of her coat.

"He's fevering."

Soren nodded, not looking at her. "How long?"

"Started at midnight. He's lucid, but the shakes are bad. I doubled the pain ration."

Kale's voice sounded from behind the tarp. "We can't drag him. He'll slow us by half, and if his blood goes bad—"

"Then we carry him anyway," Soren said.

"We could leave him with a cache," Kale said, voice lower. "Circle back, if we make the drop."

Lira's head popped up, hair blue as a chemical fire. "That's not what we agreed."

Kale scowled at her, then at Soren. "You gonna order it? Or just keep hoping he walks himself to Meridian?"

Soren closed his eyes. He saw the map in his mind: the ridgeline, the river, the checkpoint at Lusk Hill. Each meant more time exposed, more risk, more weight for every step Jannek couldn't take. He said, quietly, "We do the plan. But we stick together."

Kale spat into the dirt, but said nothing else. Lira eyed him, then slid back under the tarp, as if content to let Soren's moral calculus run its own fever.

Seren watched Soren for a long time. Her face was hard to read, but there was none of the pity he'd seen in old camp nurses or the fake optimism of an instructor. "If it comes to it," she said, "I'll do it."

He shook his head. "Not yet."

She nodded, leaned in close enough for her breath to cloud against his cheek. "They're still tracking. I heard dogs, maybe a mile down."

Soren's grip tightened on the sword. "Alright," he said. "We move at first sun. Double the watch until then."

Seren ghosted back to the tarp, leaving Soren alone with the rising wind and the knowledge that, if the dogs were after them, the odds for Jannek had just worsened.

He rolled the map out on a slab of rock, using the blade to hold the corners. The paper was already soft from sweat and rain, the ink running at the edges. Soren studied the route, looking for anything that could buy them time with a cripple and no one else coming.

He saw the pattern of markers, triangles in red, circles in blue, one black square at the bottom. He traced them, then realized: the intervals were wrong. The markers weren't just checkpoints; they were time stamps.

Soren stared at the sequence. The last marker, the black square, was on the far side of Meridian proper. The implication was clear: if they didn't make it to the end, they would be cut off, not just from rescue but from the record. The map was a contract, and the penalty clause was written in omission.

He folded it, anger hot and sharp under his skin.

At daybreak, he roused the team. Lira and Liane packed up the shelter, efficient and wordless. Kale shouldered Jannek and the supplies without waiting to be asked. It surprised Soren, the way the group could still function as a unit after all the fractures. He wondered how long it would last.

They moved through the trees, keeping to the shadowed side of the slope. Soren took point, Lira and Liane on left and right, Kale and Jannek in the center with Seren at tail. The dogs were closer now, Soren heard them once, a yip then a silence, the kind of pause that only happened when something was deciding whether to hunt or wait.

By noon, the sky went hard and blue, and the forest thinned until they were forced into a shallow draw. Jannek was awake, but shivering; sweat beaded his face and soaked through the bandage. Kale carried him like a sack of meal, every third step punctuated by a quiet curse.

Lira caught up to Soren as he picked his way ahead. "You see the pattern, right?" she said, nodding at the map.

"Yeah," Soren said. "It's not a rescue route."

She grinned, not happy. "You think the Lady's in on it?"

"She's the reason for it," Soren said, eyes still tracking the gaps in the bramble.

Lira stopped, hand on his arm. "You ever notice how she never draws her sword, even at the pass?"

Soren shook his head. "Not her style."

Lira leaned close. "I don't think it's for defense."

Soren looked at her, then at the saber at Lady Lethren's hip. "You think it's a signal."

Lira shrugged. "If it is, she's waiting for something. Or someone." She turned, melting back into the formation, as if her work was done.

Soren watched her go, then glanced at the Lady. Iria Lethren walked five paces behind, cloak still perfect, boots never catching on root or stone. She carried herself like the world owed her an apology; Soren admired the discipline, even as he hated the implications.

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