The rope burned through his sleeves.
Every step Jack took pulled the twisted hemp tighter around his forearms, cutting deep into skin that was already slick with sweat. The soldier ahead of him tugged the lead line like he was walking a rabid dog. Another watched the rear with a crooked rifle slung at the hip, muzzle always hovering too close to Jack's head.
The forest had changed again. The trees thinned. The underbrush got thicker, thornier. Smoke hung low, clinging to the soil like fog in a rice paddy.
They hadn't blindfolded him. Bad choice.
Jack counted the direction of the sun, the slant of tree shadows, the wind. Ten degrees south, turning west. Elevation dropped slightly. Two clicks at most.
He watched their gait, their spacing, the sloppiness of the rear man's weapon safety.
Amateurs. Brave, maybe. But poorly trained.
Only one of them didn't treat him like a bomb with legs.
The young one—Rinn Maret, they called him—walked off to the side, glancing at Jack every few paces. Too often.
Finally, Rinn spoke.
"Do you... understand?" he asked quietly.
The soldier ahead barked, "Shut it, Maret!"
Jack didn't respond. Just looked at him.
Rinn stepped closer anyway.
"You're not Ferali, are you?"
Jack tilted his head—subtle. Just enough.
The dialect was broken, full of archaic phrasing and odd consonants, but it was close. Mutated English, maybe. Generations removed. Jack filed that away.
Rinn whispered faster now, urgency rising. "They think you're a forge-born. A deathmaker. Like something built, not born. But you fought for us. I saw you. The shots—they were clean. Not like the Empire."
Jack stayed silent.
Not because he didn't want to talk.
Because he wanted Rinn to keep talking.
The boy looked disappointed, then muttered, "Maybe you are what they say."
Jack's lip twitched.
Behind them, one of the guards stumbled on a root, cursed, and slammed his rifle butt into Jack's shoulder without warning.
He staggered but didn't fall.
"Don't try anything," the guard snapped. "We'll gut you same as any trench mutt."
Jack just stared at him. Memorized his face. Voice. Rifle. Weak side.
Then kept walking.
If this was a warzone—and it was—he'd been captured behind lines, blindfolded by amateurs, and paraded toward enemy or allied command. Either way, the rules were simple:
Observe. Adapt. Overcome.
But never forget.
Never relax.
Never assume safety.