“Mount."
Zephyr swings into the saddle before Ben finishes handing up the reins. The horn's echo still hangs over the yard—three short, one long: sighting on the ridge. Riders fall in around him like iron filings to a magnet.
“North switchback," Ben says, breath white in the early chill. “They're on foot. No cart."
“Good," Zephyr answers. “We'll close fast."
*We'll close carefully,* Alexander says, low. *If we close at all.*
“Forward," Zephyr orders. Hooves strike cobble, then dirt, then the hard-packed path that leads out where the city stops pretending it loves you.
Rhea jogs up, tosses a rolled cloak to Holt. “For her," she says.
Holt catches it, ties it behind his saddle. “If she wants it."
“She'll want it," Rhea mutters, and falls back before Zephyr sees the soft in her face.
