The land north of Lowpine was harsher.
Not because it was dangerous—but because it was indifferent.
Stone broke the soil in uneven patches, forcing trees to grow crooked or not at all. Wind moved freely here, carrying sound farther than Jin liked. Every step felt louder. Every mistake is more permanent.
Jin slowed the group instinctively.
Hess noticed.
"You don't like this ground," he said.
"No," Jin replied. "It doesn't forgive."
They adjusted their spacing, spreading slightly to avoid leaving a single obvious trail. Jin took the lead, reading the land the way other men read maps—by the way grass bent, by how birds reacted, and by the absence of certain sounds.
Silence could mean safety.
Or it could mean waiting.
By midmorning, they found the first marker.
A wooden post driven into the ground, weathered but intact. Carved into it was the faint outline of a crest—county work. Not a boundary exactly. More of a reminder.
Hess crouched beside it. "They've pushed this far now."
"Yes," Jin said.
"They're expanding."
"No," Jin corrected. "They're closing."
That distinction mattered.
They moved east, avoiding the road but never losing sight of it entirely. Jin didn't trust land that pretended the road didn't exist. Everything here was shaped by it, whether people admitted it or not.
Near noon, they found signs of recent travel—flattened grass, disturbed stones, and the faint impression of hooves.
Riders.
Not hurried.
Controlled.
"They're pacing us," one of the men whispered.
"Yes," Jin replied.
"Why not take us?"
Jin didn't answer immediately.
Because taking you isn't the goal, he thought.
Breaking you is.
They rested briefly beneath a slanted rock face. The shade was poor, but it hid them from distant sight. Jin allowed water, then motioned for movement again before fatigue could soften their focus.
Hess walked closer now.
"You're thinking of the village," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"You shouldn't."
Jin stopped.
Turned.
Looked at him fully.
"That's the only reason any of this matters," Jin said.
Hess held his gaze, then nodded once. "Fair."
The encounter came without warning.
They crested a low ridge and nearly walked into them—two county soldiers standing watch near a bend in the road. Not moving. Not patrolling.
Waiting.
Jin reacted instantly, pulling the group back into cover.
Too late.
One of the soldiers turned his head.
Saw them.
There was no shout.
No horn.
Just a long look.
Then the soldier raised his hand—not to signal attack, but greeting.
Jin felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The soldier called out, voice calm. "You've walked far."
Hess's grip tightened on his sword.
Jin stepped forward alone.
"We're travelers," Jin said.
The soldier smiled faintly. "No. You're not."
The second soldier shifted slightly, hand resting on his weapon—not threatening. Just ready.
"We could take you now," the first soldier continued. "But that wouldn't be useful."
Jin said nothing.
"Tell your people this," the soldier said. "Lowpine is being watched. Closely."
"And if they find nothing?" Jin asked.
The soldier's smile thinned. "Then they'll look harder."
The two men stepped aside, clearing the road.
"Go," the soldier said. "For now."
Jin turned without another word and led his men away, heart pounding harder than any chase had ever forced it to.
They didn't stop until the land dipped again and trees offered concealment.
One of the men swore under his breath.
"They let us go."
"Yes," Jin said.
"That's worse," Hess muttered.
"Yes."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of it pressing down on them.
"They're drawing lines," Hess said finally. "Seeing who crosses them."
Jin nodded. "And now we know where they are."
That night, Jin dreamed of fences.
Not wooden ones.
Invisible ones.
Lines drawn across land and people alike.
He saw Lowpine from above, watching as those lines crept closer, tightening like a net.
He woke before dawn, breath shallow, resolve hardening into something colder.
They split at first light.
Not fully.
Just enough.
Two men went west, instructed to circle wide and return to Lowpine quietly if they could. Hess stayed with Jin.
"This won't hold forever," Hess said.
"No," Jin agreed. "But it buys time."
"For what?"
Jin didn't answer.
Some questions only existed because answers hurt.
They moved south now, toward ground neither side controlled fully. Jin knew it well—old smuggling paths, forgotten clearings, places where the land itself resisted ownership.
As they walked, Jin thought of Doyan.
Of the way the boy watched the road without fear.
Of how innocence didn't know when to look away.
That night, as they made camp beneath twisted trees, Jin finally spoke the thought he'd been carrying.
"There are lines," he said quietly. "Once crossed, you don't come back the same."
Hess stared into the fireless dark. "Which line are we near?"
Jin didn't hesitate.
"The last one that still lets us choose."