Aria’s POV
We didn’t cross the river right away.
Crossing used to mean traps, counting steps, watching for wire. Today it meant cold water and stones that shifted under your boots.
That was worse, somehow. No rules to follow. Just balance.
Darian went first. He set Tav’s carving knife on the bank. “So my hands are empty,” he said. “In case they think hands mean weapons.”
He waded in. Water to his knees. Didn’t flinch. Ten years of quarry cold taught him that.
One by one we followed. Packs on our backs, not on our guard. The river tugged at my ankles like it was curious. Like it didn’t know the Debt’s pack either.
The smoke got thicker on the far side. Not Warden smoke. Not the sharp, chemical burn we’d learned to run from. This smelled like wood. Like food. Like someone wasn’t
