The beacon’s silver thread still hung in the sky when they fled the quarry. Thin, straight, merciless. It didn’t fade, didn’t sway. It was less light than a finger—always pointing, always accusing.
Every step south felt stolen. The forest kept its secrets, but the wind carried the Spire’s hum like a rumor that wanted to be true.
---
The Road South
Ysra led them down a deer-track that twisted through brambles. “Rivers this way,” she muttered, spear steady. “Lowland farms. Mud to drown trails in.”
Tor grimaced. “The Magister’s men know rivers too. They’ll expect us there.”
“Good,” Ysra said without looking back. “Let them expect. We won’t be where they’re sure of.”
Kael limped along beside Lena, his grin pale but persistent. “Do you hear her? ‘Let them expect.’ A commander’s poetry.”
