The county men did not return the next day.
That, more than their visit, unsettled Jin.
Lowpine went on with its routines—fields worked, fences repaired, bread baked thin and shared thinner—but the absence lingered like a held breath. When men came to threaten, they usually returned to remind you of it. When they didn't, it meant they were deciding how best to apply pressure.
Jin felt it in the way people spoke around him.
Shorter sentences.
Lower voices.
Eyes that followed him just a moment too long before looking away.
He did not blame them.
Fear always searched for a shape.
That morning, Jin worked the eastern field with two other men, driving stakes into the soil where the fence had begun to sag. The work was honest. Repetitive. Safe, in its way. Jin focused on the rhythm of it—the lift, the strike, the dull resistance of earth yielding. It reminded him that not everything resisted forever.
"Do you hear anything?" one of the men asked quietly.
Jin shook his head. "Nothing useful."
The man nodded and returned to his work. He did not press. Everyone in Lowpine had learned what questions not to ask.
By midday, the sun hung high and unforgiving. Jin wiped sweat from his brow and straightened slowly, easing the ache in his back. From where he stood, he could see the road in the distance, pale against the land. Empty.
Too empty.
He watched it longer than necessary.
Then he turned away.
That afternoon, Hess found him behind the barn.
"You shouldn't be standing where people can see you think," Hess said without greeting.
Jin snorted softly. "Then I'd never stand anywhere."
Hess crossed his arms. "The patrol that came here—do you know them?"
"No."
"But you know the type."
"Yes."
Hess shifted his weight. "They weren't fishing. They were measuring."
Jin nodded. "They're deciding how much force this place can absorb without breaking."
"And?"
"And how much fear it takes to make someone talk."
Hess grimaced. "Lowpine's not built for that."
"No," Jin agreed. "It isn't."
They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of village life. A hammer striking wood. Children laughing. A dog barking without urgency.
All of it felt fragile.
"We need to move," Hess said finally. "At least for a while."
"Yes."
"Sooner than later."
Jin did not answer right away.
Movement meant absence.
Absence drew attention.
But staying meant certainty.
"I'll decide tonight," Jin said.
Hess studied him, then nodded. "Don't wait too long."
That evening, Jin sat with Doyan outside the house, the boy practicing his sword forms as the light softened. Jin corrected him sparingly now. Too many instructions made the body stiff. Too few made it careless.
"Again," Jin said.
Doyan adjusted his stance and swung. Cleaner. More balanced.
"Better," Jin said.
The praise landed harder than correction ever did. Doyan straightened slightly, trying not to smile. Failing.
"You're distracted," Doyan said after a moment.
Jin raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"
"You keep looking at the road," the boy replied matter-of-factly.
Jin followed his gaze.
The road lay quiet.
Always quiet—until it wasn't.
"You shouldn't worry about that," Jin said.
Doyan shrugged. "I don't. I just notice."
That, Jin thought, might be worse.
After the children slept, Mira joined him outside again. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded against the cooling air.
"They came to the mill today," she said.
Jin stiffened slightly. "Who?"
"County men. Different ones."
"Did they ask about me?"
"Yes."
Jin closed his eyes briefly.
"What did you say?"
Mira's voice remained steady. "That you work hard. That you keep to yourself. That you leave early and come back tired."
All true.
None helpful.
"They thanked me," she added.
That was worse.
That night, Jin did not sleep.
He lay awake listening to the village breathe around him, every sound etched too sharply into his mind. He thought of the men who followed him, of the road that no longer felt neutral, and of the way the county watched without acting.
They were waiting.
The question was, for what?
By dawn, Jin had made his decision.
They met beyond the fields, where Lowpine's fences gave way to broken ground and scrub. This time, only four men came. Jin chose them carefully—those least tied to the village, those who could disappear without leaving holes too obvious to ignore.
Hess arrived last.
"You're late," he said.
"I know," Jin replied.
They moved north without ceremony, taking ground that forced silence and punished carelessness. Jin set a hard pace. Not punishing. Purposeful.
By midday, they reached higher land. From there, Jin could see the road again, winding farther than before, stretching into places he did not know.
That was the point.
They rested briefly behind stone outcroppings, eating in silence.
One of the men spoke. "If they follow us…"
"They will," Jin said.
"…will they stop at the village?"
Jin met his gaze. "Only if they think there's something left to find."
Understanding dawned.
Fear sharpened.
They moved again.
Near dusk, they saw the riders.
Three of them, moving along the road at a steady pace. Not searching. Not hiding.
Watching.
Jin felt the weight of it settle into his bones.
"They know," Hess muttered.
"Yes," Jin said.
"And they're letting us know they know."
That was the price of watching.
That night, Jin dreamed of Lowpine burning—not in flames, but in silence. Doors closed. Faces turned away. A village learning how to survive without him.
He woke with the taste of iron in his mouth.
And he knew, with a clarity that hurt, that the road was no longer just a means to an end.
It was becoming the end itself.