Morning came to Lowpine without ceremony.
It always did.
The village did not wake with bells or calls or purpose. It simply stirred, like an old animal shifting its weight, deciding whether the day was worth the effort.
Jin rose before the sun.
He always had.
The habit came from years when daylight meant opportunity and darkness meant survival. Even now, with a roof over his head and children sleeping nearby, his body rejected rest once the night began to thin.
He stepped outside quietly, pulling his cloak around him. The air was sharp, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from dying hearths. Somewhere down the road, a cart creaked as someone else began their day.
Lowpine was poor, but it worked.
That was its virtue.
Jin leaned against the fence and watched the horizon lighten. He let himself stand still for a moment—just one—before responsibility settled back onto his shoulders.
Inside the house, Mira was already awake.
She moved softly, careful not to wake the children as she wrapped bread and dried roots in cloth. Jin knew better than to interrupt her. This was her preparation, her own version of readiness.
"You'll be gone today," she said without turning.
"Yes."
"How long?"
Jin hesitated.
"Until evening," he said finally.
That was a lie, but a gentle one. Mira didn't challenge it. She never did. They had learned which truths were useful and which only caused pain.
She handed him the wrapped food.
"Eat," she said. "Not later. Not when you remember. Now."
Jin accepted it with a nod.
Before he left, he paused at the doorway to the children's room.
Lina slept curled on her side, fingers still clutching the wooden horse. Doyan lay on his back, brow furrowed even in sleep, as if practicing forms in his dreams.
Jin watched his son for longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
The men were waiting at the edge of the village.
Five this time.
No boy among them today.
That was intentional.
The youngest had been left behind, sent to help with field repairs. Jin did not trust courage that had not yet learned restraint.
Hess stood apart from the others, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. He looked up when Jin approached, eyes assessing, measuring.
"You're late," Hess said.
"I know," Jin replied.
They didn't shake hands.
They never did.
They moved out without fanfare, slipping into the trees as the sun finally cleared the hills. The path they took was not a path at all—just a remembered way through brush and broken ground, learned through repetition rather than maps.
As they walked, Jin listened.
To breathe.
Two footfalls.
To silence.
Hunger sharpened men in different ways. Some grew reckless. Some grew cruel. The best grew aware.
Hess fell into step beside him.
"You heard anything?" he asked.
"Not yet," Jin replied.
"The county's been quiet."
"Yes."
Hess frowned. "That worries me."
"It should," Jin said.
Quiet from the county never meant peace. It meant preparation.
They reached the ridge by midday. From there, the road stretched out below them, pale and winding, cutting through the land like a scar that never healed.
Travelers were sparse.
That too was wrong.
Jin studied the movement carefully.
Too few merchants.
Too many armed escorts.
The balance had shifted.
"They're adapting," Hess muttered.
"Yes," Jin said. "So must we."
They waited.
Waiting was a skill.
It required resisting the urge to act, to justify movement with effort. Jin had learned long ago that stillness often revealed more than motion.
Eventually, a lone rider appeared.
Not a merchant.
Not a guard.
A courier.
County colors.
Jin felt something tighten in his chest.
"Not today," Hess said quietly.
"No," Jin agreed. "Not today."
They let the rider pass unchallenged.
When the road emptied again, Jin made his decision.
"We move north," he said.
Hess blinked. "That's closer to the county."
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"No," Jin replied honestly. "But the South expects us."
Expectation killed more men than steel.
By afternoon, clouds gathered, dragging shadows across the land. The men moved faster now, cutting through undergrowth and uneven ground.
Hess spoke again, quieter this time.
"You're pushing us."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Jin stopped.
Turned.
Looked at each of them.
"Because hunger is coming," he said. "And it doesn't wait."
They understood.
Not fully.
But enough.
They reached a stream before dusk and crossed without pause, letting the water wash away tracks and doubt alike. Jin watched his men carefully as they moved—who hesitated, who adapted, and who followed without thinking.
These were the measurements that mattered.
When they finally stopped, it was in a shallow basin hidden by stone and twisted roots. Not comfortable. Not safe.
Adequate.
They ate quickly.
No fire.
No laughter.
Just necessity.
As the light faded, one of the men spoke.
"Jin," he said. "What happens when the county decides we're worth the trouble?"
The question lingered.
Jin answered it carefully.
"Then we stop being what they expect."
That was all.
Night settled fully.
Jin lay awake long after the others slept, staring at the dark canopy above. He thought of Mira. Of Doyan. Of the academy walls rising clean and bright in his mind.
He thought of the road.
And he wondered—not for the first time—how much of himself he was teaching his son without ever meaning to.