The late-morning sun was already higher when the dismantled remains of the camp fell behind us. The horses tugged gently at the harness, the cart’s boards creaked now and then in deeper ruts, and the shifting breeze swept the metallic, tent-stale scent from my lungs. The bandage around my side was tight—Cassian had it redone by the healer before departure and ordered me to sit still today, not jump around. That’s how I ended up on the back seat of the canvas-covered cart, leaning against a folded cloak.
Darius sat across from me, his sword propped at his feet, the collar of his coat loosened. One strap on his wrist still bore a thin, barely visible line of blood—mine. He hadn’t covered it. He hadn’t excused it. He just let it be there, as fact.
Cassian rode alongside us on the left, some
