Morning arrived like an apology no one believed.
A thin mist clung to the ruins, veiling the trees in ghost-white gauze. Dew gathered on the frayed rope binding Low's wrists. The fire had died in the night — no one dared stoke it.
Bren was already awake.
He sat with his back to the crumbling watchtower wall, one hand around his axe, the other curled near a pouch of dried herbs he hadn't touched. His eyes were bloodshot, not from drink — but from watching something too long.
Low hadn't moved. His head bowed, but not in sleep. Just stillness. As if listening to something no one else could hear.
"He's still breathing," muttered Caster, dragging himself up and rubbing his neck. "Thought he might've died sitting up.
Renn tossed a stone toward the fire pit, but it barely bounced.
Bren didn't look away.
"Dead men don't hold their breath for hours."
The others stirred — quietly. Their morning routine felt strangely like a ritual now, performed under observation. As if Low were the altar, and they the unworthy priests pretending they knew the rites.
Finally, Low spoke.
His voice was raw with morning, but deliberate.
"You're headed east."
It wasn't a question.
Brae grunted, chewing on cold bread.
"That a problem?"
Low looked up. The mist parted slightly, enough for his eyes to show — dark, and deeper than they had any right to be.
"No," he said. "Just curious if you'll sell me before or after the war begins again."
Brae frowned.
"What war?"
Low offered a thin smile — as if hearing thunder no one else could.
"The one the dead will start."
Brae didn't answer at first. He just looked at Low — really looked — like a man forced to acknowledge the shape of a wound he'd been ignoring.
Then, sharply:
"You keep talking like a prophet."
Low's voice was soft, uncut by provocation.
"Only corpses believe silence makes them holy."
Bren grunted at that. Maybe amusement. Maybe something else. Caster didn't seem amused at all.
"You saying you're dead?" he asked, flexing the bruised knuckles of his left hand.
"I'm saying," Low replied, "that if I were still alive... I'd be terrified."
A quiet hung in the camp like damp linen.
The others busied themselves with tasks — packing satchels, kicking embers, pretending they hadn't heard. But the silence didn't leave. It followed each motion, clinging like smoke to their backs.
Bren approached the fire pit again. He crouched by the blackened wood, ignoring the rest, his voice pitched low.
"You ever killed before?" he asked.
Low didn't blink.
"I was a priest," he said. "Of course I have."
A flicker of something unreadable passed across Bren's face — not surprise, not approval. Recognition, maybe.
Then came Renn again, stepping close with the same half-wary hunger as before.
"What's the Mark mean?" he asked, too curious. "Was it... branded on you?"
Low tilted his head, like he was listening for distant thunder.
"No," he murmured. "It bloomed."
The boy stepped back, uncertain.
And above them, crows circled — not calling, just gliding.
***
The sun didn't rise so much as uncover itself — reluctantly, like it too had slept poorly. Pale gold fingers crept through the trees, casting everything in the color of old bruises. Mist clung low to the ground, unwilling to let go of the night.
Brae gave the word.
They packed quickly, as men do when something unseen has already started to follow them. No one said it aloud, but the usual grumbling was absent. No one joked. No one teased Renn for nearly dropping his pack. Even Caster tied his boots without swearing once.
Low stood when they told him to, rope still around his wrists. He didn't flinch when the cold touched his bare feet. The frost beneath the leaves didn't seem to know what to make of him.
They moved in single file through the trees — Brae in front, Bren just behind. Low walked near the center, guarded but not guarded. It felt like watching a flame being escorted by men who thought it was merely warm, unaware it was still fire.
Birds began to stir above, but they did not sing.
The forest changed.
The path narrowed. The light shifted. Shapes loomed stranger, less defined. Every tree looked like it remembered something. The silence grew brittle.
Caster finally broke it.
"Where exactly we taking him?" he asked, his breath visible.
Brae grunted.
"East. Riverpost. Slavers still run blackchain through there. Get a decent price, maybe even enough for gear."
"Gear won't help if he wakes up wrong," muttered the woman — Kara, scarred and sharp-eyed. "He's too quiet."
Low spoke without turning his head.
"If you fear me," he said gently, "sell me quickly."
That stopped the group cold.
Only Bren chuckled — once, joylessly.
"Aye," he said. "Before he remembers what was done to him."
And still, Low walked.
As though the rope was decoration. As though none of this was real. But the woods knew better. And somewhere, not far ahead, the crows had landed.
***
By midday, the mist had lifted.
They followed the half-eaten path east, hemmed in by boughs like ribs, light filtering down in narrow, uncertain shafts. Each step felt louder. Each glance behind a little longer.
Low said nothing, nothing at all.
Bren walked beside him now, not because he was assigned — but because no one else volunteered. The others kept distance, like firewood kept from a blaze that hadn't asked to burn yet.
Renn whispered once, just loud enough for Caster to hear.
"Maybe we just... leave him."
Caster snorted.
"Leave a bag of coins on legs? That'd be rich."
"Coins don't watch like that."
Kara spat.
"You two grow up or shut up."
But the words held less heat than usual. She, too, had stopped meeting Low's eyes.
Even Brae was quieter. One hand never left the axe at his hip, the other tightening and loosening around the strap of his pack like it was trying to remember something it couldn't forgive.
Then, Bren spoke:
"We're not alone."
They halted. Not from fear — not yet. Just the muscle memory of people who'd lived long enough to learn when someone means it.
Brae turned.
"Explain."
Bren didn't look at him.
"He's not the only quiet thing in these woods."
All eyes turned to Low.
He stood calmly, gaze distant, as though hearing something none of them could.
Brae stepped forward.
"You know what's out there?"
Low's voice was soft, barely audible.
"Something that follows silence. Like hounds follow blood."
No one moved.
Then, Low did — only his head, slightly turned toward Kara.
"You were marked by fire," he said. "You know what it's like to carry a scream so loud, the world never stops echoing it."
Kara's hand went to her blade.
Renn whispered.
"He's not chained. That's a noose around us."
No one laughed.
And for the first time, not even the trees did.
***
They kept walking. Eastward and uphill now.
No one spoke. Even the forest seemed to hush around them, trees leaning in like listeners too afraid to ask questions.
Low's footsteps made no sound.
Renn noticed it first — the lack of weight. The dirt didn't cling to his soles. He left no trace, as if the world had agreed not to notice him.
"Brae," Renn whispered, "I don't think he's real."
"Shut it."
"No, listen—"
"I said shut it."
But he'd already said too much.
Everyone had noticed something. The way Low didn't sweat. Didn't shiver. Didn't breathe heavy, even when they climbed. The rope, knotted at his wrists, hadn't rubbed his skin raw. It just... hung there, like it didn't know how to bind what wasn't entirely human.
Bren lit another pinch of rootleaf, the flare of flame momentarily bright in the growing dark.
"We're being followed," he said.
Low turned his head slightly, almost amused.
"We're always followed," he said. "By what we fail to bury."
Brae drew to a halt.
"Enough riddles. Say what's on your tongue."
Low's smile was paper-thin.
"You can feel it, can't you? The hush behind the trees. The weight pressing down. It's not me you fear, Brae."
Brae stepped forward.
"No? Then what?"
Low looked up.
"The silence before something old remembers it has teeth."
A branch snapped, distant — not a twig, but something heavier.
Everyone turned.
Kara unsheathed her blade. Cren checked his belt. Bren muttered something under his breath — an old soldier's ward.
Low stood still.
"You took me from where I was buried," he said, softly. "And something noticed."
Brae's voice was hoarse.
"What did we take?"
Low blinked, slowly. Then answered.
"A shadow that knows my name."