Chapter 56 — Lines That Don't Wash Away
The road appeared by midmorning.
Not a proper trade road—too narrow, too broken—but worn enough to mean traffic. Old cart ruts. Boot prints overlapping boot prints. The kind of place people used when they didn't want witnesses but still needed to move fast.
Korran slowed us with a raised hand.
"Eyes open," he said. "This is where hunters stop pretending."
Selia rolled her shoulders. "Finally. I was getting bored of trees."
I stayed quiet.
The forest hadn't let go of us. It followed at the edges—branches leaning inward, shadows lingering a heartbeat too long. Whatever had tested us last night hadn't retreated.
It had repositioned.
We followed the road for less than a mile before the smell hit.
Iron.
Rot.
Smoke, old but stubborn.
Bran noticed it too. "That's not campfire."
We found the wagons first.
Three of them, pulled off the road and half-burned. One lay on its side, wheels hacked apart. Another had been split open like a carcass, crates shattered, contents scattered and trampled.
Bodies lay where they'd fallen.
Merchants. Guards. One child.
Selia swore softly.
Lysara knelt beside the nearest corpse, fingers hovering just above the skin. "No magic residue. This was clean."
"Too clean," Korran said.
I crouched near the wagon tracks.
They didn't scatter.
They funneled.
"Ambush was planned," I said. "They let them think they could escape."
Bran grimaced. "That's just cruel."
"No," Selia replied. "That's professional."
I straightened and turned slowly.
Six sets of tracks left the site.
Five returned.
I pointed. "Someone didn't walk away."
Silence settled.
Korran's jaw tightened. "Hostage?"
"Or message," Selia said.
Lysara stood. "The survivors wouldn't have screamed. Not if they wanted us to follow."
I felt it then.
Not danger.
Expectation.
We were standing exactly where someone wanted us.
"Burn it," Bran muttered. "At least give them rites."
Korran nodded. "Quickly."
As Bran worked, Selia drifted to my side. Her voice stayed low.
"You're noticing things faster."
"I'm just not ignoring them anymore."
"That's worse," she said. "Means you're adapting."
I didn't like the way she said it.
The smoke rose thin and gray, cutting into the sky like a scar. As it did, I felt something loosen in my chest—then tighten again.
Because smoke travels.
And someone would see it.
We didn't wait.
The trail from the wagons led off-road again, this time into uneven ground—rocks, shallow ravines, places sound died quickly.
Half an hour in, Lysara stopped.
"Here," she said.
The earth was disturbed. Not footprints—drag marks.
Fresh.
Bran shifted his grip. "Alive?"
"For now," she said. "They're being careful."
Selia smiled without humor. "Of course they are. He's bait."
The trap sprung without warning.
Not blades.
Not arrows.
Sound.
A low horn call rolled through the ravine, vibrating through bone more than air. My vision blurred for half a second—just long enough for shapes to detach from stone and shadow.
Eight this time.
Not mercenaries.
Enforcers.
Matching armor. Seals etched into their pauldrons. Not a guild.
A contracted force.
"Circle!" Korran barked.
Too late.
They didn't rush us.
They split.
Controlled. Disciplined. Two toward Bran, three pressing Selia, one shadowing Lysara.
Two came for me.
One spoke as he advanced. "Don't resist."
I drew my sword.
"No."
They moved together.
I met the first strike clean—steel on steel—but the second hit low, shield slamming into my ribs. I rolled with it, barely, blade scraping along armor seams I'd memorized from a hundred drills.
They weren't trying to kill me.
They were testing again.
That made me angry.
I stepped in instead of back, caught a wrist, twisted hard enough to dislocate. He grunted—not screamed.
Professional.
The other adjusted instantly.
Behind me, Selia laughed mid-fight. "Oh, I hate these guys!"
Bran roared.
Lysara shouted something I didn't catch.
I didn't need to.
Because the ground ahead dipped sharply.
And at the bottom—
A post.
Chains.
A man tied upright, bloodied but breathing.
Merchant guard, judging by the armor.
And behind him, hands clasped calmly behind his back—
A tall figure in gray.
Maskless.
Watching me.
"Enough," the man said softly.
The enforcers disengaged at once, stepping back in perfect unison.
Korran froze.
Selia's blades lowered by a fraction.
The stranger smiled—not at the group.
At me.
"You've confirmed the reports," he said. "You don't rely on borrowed strength."
My grip tightened.
"What do you want?"
He glanced at the chained man. "This one lives or dies based on what you do next."
I stepped forward.
Korran's voice cut sharp. "Shadeblade—"
"I know."
The man tilted his head. "Remove the mask."
The ravine went silent.
"No," I said.
"Then choose," he replied calmly. "Your face… or his life."
I looked at the captive.
Then at the sword in my hand.
Volrag's lessons echoed, distant and unhelpful.
Some lines, once crossed, never wash away.
I took another step forward.
"Untie him," I said. "And I'll listen."
The man's smile widened.
"Good," he said. "Negotiation. That's progress."
The chains loosened.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And for the first time since I put on the mask—
I felt the world leaning in to see which part of me would answer.