They turned east before noon.
Not sharply.
Not enough to announce intention.
Just enough to become uncertain.
Jin chose paths that bent rather than cut, routes that suggested indecision to anyone reading tracks from a distance. He broke branches where it looked careless, then avoided leaving prints where it mattered. A man who wanted to disappear did one thing. A man who wanted to confuse did another.
He was doing the second.
Hess watched him work without comment. There was respect in the silence—and something else. Concern, maybe. Or the slow realization that Jin was no longer reacting.
He was planning.
They reached a shallow ravine by midafternoon. Water cut through it only during spring melt, leaving the ground uneven and scarred. Jin descended first, testing each step, then motioned Hess down.
"This place remembers," Hess said quietly.
"Yes," Jin replied. "But badly."
They followed the ravine for nearly an hour, walking where water once flowed. Tracks here were swallowed by stone and shadow. Even a careful reader would struggle.
When they climbed out, Jin changed direction again.
Hess exhaled. "If I were hunting us, I'd be angry by now."
Jin nodded. "Good."
They found shelter beneath an old stone outcrop as clouds thickened overhead. Rain began as a suggestion, then committed fully—cold and relentless.
Jin allowed a fire this time. A small one. Fed carefully.
Smoke hugged the stone before lifting, thin and uncertain.
Hess stretched his hands toward the warmth. "You're not sleeping tonight either."
"No."
"You don't trust this place?"
"I don't trust myself in it."
Hess glanced at him. "That's new."
Jin didn't answer.
Some truths were not meant to be unpacked aloud.
As dusk settled, the rain eased, leaving the world slick and reflective. Jin stepped away from the fire, scanning the slope below.
That's when he saw it.
Movement.
Not careless.
Not rushed.
Two shapes moving along the upper ridge, silhouetted briefly against the dim sky.
Scouts.
Jin felt his pulse steady.
"They're closer," Hess said softly.
"Yes."
"They're good."
"Yes."
Hess waited. "What now?"
Jin watched the ridge. "Now we let them see what we want them to see."
He stepped deliberately into the open, breaking cover just enough to be noticed. He made no attempt to hide his movement, then retreated again into shadow.
A signal.
A question.
"Are you following, or are you hunting?"
They waited.
Minutes passed.
Then one of the shapes moved—descending slightly, testing distance.
Jin smiled faintly.
"They're curious," he said.
"And that helps us how?"
Jin met Hess's gaze. "Because curiosity makes men lean forward."
They left before full dark.
Not fleeing.
Relocating.
Jin led them into thicker forest, doubling back once, then splitting off sharply, leaving behind signs that suggested haste. Broken brush. A scuffed stone.
Then he erased himself again.
By midnight, they were miles away, moving quietly through land that swallowed sound.
Hess finally spoke. "You're drawing them out."
"Yes."
"That's dangerous."
"Yes."
"But necessary."
Jin nodded.
Pressure had a shape.
You could endure it.
Or you could redirect it.
They reached a ruined watchtower near dawn—nothing more than a ring of fallen stone and a half-standing wall. Jin knew it well. Few did.
They rested briefly.
As the light strengthened, Jin studied the horizon.
"They'll split," he said.
Hess frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because they think we're tired. And tired men make mistakes."
"And you want them to think that."
"Yes."
Hess leaned back against stone. "You've changed."
Jin didn't deny it.
"I've learned," he said.
By late morning, they heard distant horns.
Not alarmed.
Signal.
Hess stiffened. "They've found something."
"Yes," Jin said calmly. "But not us."
He moved without urgency now, leading Hess along a ridge that overlooked a narrow valley. Below, men moved—county soldiers, spreading out, methodical.
"They're sweeping," Hess said.
"Yes."
"And we're… what?"
Jin crouched. "We're watching."
They observed as the soldiers examined false trails, debated directions, and split again.
One group moved north.
One west.
One—smaller—continued east.
Toward Lowpine.
Jin's chest tightened.
"Too soon," Hess muttered.
"Yes."
Jin stood. "Which means we intervene."
They descended the ridge carefully, circling wide until they were ahead of the eastern group. Jin chose the ground quickly—a narrow pass where sound carried poorly and sight narrowed.
They prepared without speaking.
No traps.
No blood.
Just presence.
When the soldiers entered the pass, Jin stepped out alone.
Hands visible.
Unarmed.
The soldiers halted instantly, weapons rising.
Jin held their gaze.
"Turn back," he said.
One of them laughed. "You're bold."
"Yes."
"Or stupid."
"Maybe."
Another soldier studied him closely. "You're the one they warned us about."
Jin nodded once. "Then you know this ends badly."
"For you," the soldier said.
"For all of us," Jin corrected. "If you continue."
Silence stretched.
Then footsteps echoed behind Jin.
Hess.
Visible.
Calm.
Not threatening.
A message.
The soldiers exchanged glances.
The leader frowned. "You think this stops us?"
"No," Jin said. "I think it slows you."
The leader considered.
Then he lowered his weapon slightly. "You're buying time."
"Yes."
"For what?"
Jin didn't answer.
Some things were not for enemies to hear.
After a long moment, the leader gestured.
"Fall back," he ordered.
They withdrew—not defeated, not convinced, but cautious.
Jin watched until they vanished.
Hess exhaled sharply. "That was reckless."
"Yes," Jin said. "And effective."
They didn't linger.
By the time the soldiers realized what had happened, Jin and Hess were gone—leaving behind nothing but uncertainty.
They moved until their legs burned, then farther still.
Only when the land softened again did Jin stop.
Hess leaned over, hands on knees. "You just put a mark on yourself."
Jin nodded. "I already had one."
"This makes it heavier."
"Yes."
Hess straightened slowly. "Then why?"
Jin looked toward the distant line where the road would be.
"Because pressure breaks things," he said. "But it also reveals weak points."
"And if you're wrong?"
Jin met his eyes. "Then I pay."
That night, Jin dreamed of his children.
Not as they were.
As they might become.
Doyan standing straight, sword steady.
His daughter smiling without fear.
Mira was watching him—not with worry, but with something like forgiveness.
He woke before dawn, heart heavy but resolve intact.
Pressure had a shape.
And now—
So did his answer.