They traveled without speaking.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because every word felt like weight, and Jin was already carrying enough.
The ground sloped downward as they moved south, the land softening underfoot. Grass grew taller here, less trampled, as if the road itself hesitated to claim it. Jin preferred places like this. Places that resisted being known.
Hess walked a few paces behind him.
Not out of deference.
Out of thought.
Jin could feel it—questions pressing against restraint, the urge to speak held back by understanding. Hess had changed over the years. He used to fill silence with noise. Now he let it exist.
That, Jin thought, might be the most dangerous kind of man.
They crossed a narrow stream before midday. Jin paused only long enough to rinse his hands, scrubbing away dirt and the lingering feel of that soldier's eyes on him. Water moved on without caring who watched it.
He envied that.
"Do you ever think about stopping?" Hess asked suddenly.
Jin glanced at him. "Every day."
"And?"
"And every day I remember why I can't."
Hess nodded slowly, as if he had expected no other answer.
By afternoon, the sky dimmed, clouds dragging low and heavy. The air smelled like rain that hadn't yet decided whether to fall. Jin adjusted their path instinctively, angling toward higher ground where water would not trap them.
They found signs of others as the day wore on.
Old camps.
Cold ashes.
Discarded scraps of cloth.
Not bandits.
Not travelers.
Men hiding.
"County?" Hess asked.
"Maybe," Jin replied. "Or men who don't want to be found by them."
Both were dangerous.
They pressed on, stopping only when exhaustion threatened to dull awareness. Jin allowed them to rest beneath a stand of bent trees, their branches twisted by years of wind.
As they ate, Hess studied Jin quietly.
"You're not sleeping," he said.
"I will," Jin replied.
"You won't."
Jin didn't argue.
Sleep came easier when a man believed he could afford it.
They heard the voices just before dusk.
Not shouting.
Not searching.
Talking.
Jin froze instantly, lowering himself into the brush and pulling Hess down beside him. They listened.
Three men, by the sound of it. Close. Very close.
Jin shifted his weight slowly, peering through the leaves.
They weren't soldiers.
No uniform.
No discipline in the way they moved.
Bandits.
Not Jin's men.
Not anyone he recognized.
The men were arguing over something—food, maybe. One laughed harshly, the sound cutting through the quiet like a blade.
Hess's jaw tightened. "They'll draw attention."
"Yes," Jin said. "And they won't survive it."
"Should we move?"
Jin considered.
If they left, these men would remain—a signal fire waiting to be lit. If they stayed, the risk sharpened.
He made his decision.
"No," Jin said. "We wait."
They watched as the bandits stumbled into a small clearing, careless, loud, and convinced that isolation meant safety. Jin recognized the posture instantly.
Men who hadn't learned yet.
One of them noticed the road through the trees and scoffed. "Easy pickings tomorrow," he said.
Jin felt something sour rise in his chest.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He had stood like that once.
Night fell hard.
The bandits built a fire.
A foolish one.
Too bright.
Too exposed.
Jin turned to Hess. "They won't last the week."
Hess frowned. "You don't care?"
Jin hesitated.
"I care," he said. "But not enough to save them."
That was the truth.
They moved away once darkness fully settled, circling wide to avoid leaving tracks near the firelight. Jin did not look back.
Some lessons were paid for in blood, whether anyone liked it or not.
They camped far from the clearing, hidden by terrain and shadow. Jin set the watch himself, sending Hess to rest first.
As the night deepened, Jin's thoughts wandered despite his efforts to keep them anchored.
He thought of Mira.
Of how calm she had been when she told him the county men had returned.
Of how fear had learned to live quietly inside her.
He thought of Doyan.
Of the boy's grip on the wooden sword.
Too tight.
Too eager.
Jin wondered what his son would carry from him.
Strength?
Resolve?
Or the shape of a man who justified every wrong with love?
Near dawn, Hess woke suddenly.
"Someone's moving," he whispered.
Jin was already up.
They listened.
Footsteps.
Careful.
Not bandits.
Too disciplined.
Jin felt his muscles coil.
Two figures emerged from the dark—county scouts, moving low, eyes scanning the ground. One paused near a broken branch Jin's group had stepped over earlier.
Too close.
Jin held his breath.
The scout frowned, crouching to examine the dirt.
Then—
He straightened.
Shook his head.
Moved on.
Jin exhaled only after the men vanished into the trees.
"That was close," Hess murmured.
"Yes," Jin said. "And deliberate."
"They're testing again."
Jin nodded.
Every encounter now was a message.
Morning came gray and heavy.
Jin rose with it, decision firming into resolve.
"We can't keep moving like this," Hess said. "They'll herd us."
"Yes," Jin replied. "Which means we change the shape of the game."
Hess looked at him sharply. "How?"
Jin stared southward, toward land few cared to patrol and fewer cared to understand.
"We stop running straight," he said. "We stop being predictable."
"And Lowpine?"
Jin's jaw tightened.
"They need time," he said. "So we'll give it to them."
Even if it cost him everything else.
They moved out as the light strengthened, stepping into ground that resisted memory and defied expectation. Jin felt the road pull at him even here, as if offended by his refusal to follow.
He ignored it.
For now.
Because some things a man carried willingly.
And some—
He carried until they broke him.