The first sign was the road.
Not the travelers on it.
Not the carts or the riders.
The road itself felt wrong.
Jin noticed it as they moved along the ridge at dawn, keeping the trees to their backs and the open land ahead. The dirt was packed harder than usual, scuffed clean in places where boots had passed repeatedly. Not merchants. Not farmers.
Soldiers.
"Stop," Jin said quietly.
The men froze.
Hess crouched beside him, eyes narrowing as he followed Jin's gaze. "They've been using this stretch more than usual."
"Yes," Jin said. "Recently."
Fear did not announce itself with horns or steel. It arrived in subtler ways—patterns changing, silences forming where noise once lived.
They moved off the ridge and deeper into cover, circling wide. Jin adjusted their route twice before midday, deliberately avoiding familiar ground. Familiarity was comfort. Comfort invited mistakes.
The men followed without question.
That worried him.
Blind trust was as dangerous as doubt.
By noon, hunger pressed in earnest. Jin allowed a short rest near a fallen tree, its roots torn free by some old storm. The men ate sparingly, chewing without conversation.
Finally, Hess broke the silence.
"You're worried," he said.
"Yes."
"That's new."
Jin glanced at him. "No. I'm just quieter about it."
Hess smirked faintly, then sobered. "County patrols have been thickening near the eastern farms."
"I know."
"How?"
Jin didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to explain instinct. Some men had it. Some never did.
"They're not just watching the road anymore," Jin said. "They're watching the land around it."
Hess leaned back against the tree. "That means they're done reacting."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And they're choosing."
They moved again in the early afternoon.
The land dipped lower here, the forest thinning as fields spread outward. Low fences marked property lines that existed more in memory than law. Jin avoided them all.
A crow burst from the brush ahead, wings beating loud against the air.
One of the men flinched.
Jin stopped instantly.
Too late.
They heard it then—voices.
Close.
Jin dropped flat, pulling the nearest man down with him. Hess followed, blade half-drawn but still sheathed.
County soldiers emerged from behind a low rise.
Five of them.
Relaxed.
Laughing.
They hadn't seen Jin's group yet.
Jin counted quickly.
Five soldiers.
Six of his men.
Open ground.
Bad odds.
Worse positioning.
Jin waited.
The soldiers passed without looking their way, boots crunching on dry grass. One of them kicked a stone ahead absentmindedly. Another complained about his rations.
When they were gone, Jin exhaled slowly.
"Too close," someone whispered.
"Yes," Jin replied. "And deliberate."
Hess frowned. "They weren't searching."
"No," Jin said. "They were sweeping."
The difference mattered.
Sweeping meant confidence.
They did not return to Lowpine that night.
Jin altered their course and led them northward, toward rougher land and thinner patrols. The men noticed, but no one argued.
Fear had begun to shape them.
They camped near a rocky outcrop as dusk fell, the ground uneven and uncomfortable. Jin preferred it that way. Discomfort kept men alert.
While the others ate, Jin climbed higher, scanning the horizon until darkness swallowed detail.
He thought of Mira.
Of the way she looked at him when he said nothing.
Of Doyan, swinging a wooden sword with all the seriousness of a man twice his age.
This was supposed to be temporary.
All of it.
That was the lie he'd been telling himself for years.
They returned to Lowpine the following morning.
The village greeted them with the same tired familiarity—but something underneath had shifted.
People watched longer.
Spoke less.
Jin felt eyes on him even when he wasn't looking.
Mira met him at the door, her expression calm but tight.
"They came," she said quietly.
Jin felt his chest constrict. "Who?"
"County men," she replied. "Two of them. Asking questions."
"About what?"
"About the road."
Of course.
"What did you tell them?"
"The truth," Mira said. "That we see travelers. That we mind our own work. That you're a farmer who leaves early and returns late."
Jin nodded slowly.
"And?"
"They didn't argue," she said. "They just listened."
That was worse.
Listening meant remembering.
That evening, Jin sat with Doyan outside, the boy practicing his forms with the wooden sword. Jin corrected his stance once, then again, adjusting grip and balance.
"Again," Jin said.
Doyan complied without complaint.
"You're tense," the boy said suddenly.
Jin paused. "Am I?"
"Yes," Doyan replied. "Your shoulders are stiff."
Jin smiled faintly.
"You'll need sharper eyes than that at the academy," he said.
Doyan's face lit up. "You think I'll get in?"
Jin didn't answer right away.
"Yes," he said finally. "I do."
Doyan beamed.
The smile hurt more than fear ever could.
That night, Jin dreamed of the road.
Not as dirt or stone—but as something alive, stretching endlessly, winding toward places he could not see.
Men walked it.
Men bled on it.
And the road remembered all of them.
Jin woke before dawn, heart heavy, mind already moving.
The county had begun to notice.
Soon, they would decide.
And when they did, Jin would have to choose whether the road still belonged to him—or whether it was time to step off it forever.