The next morning broke cold and pale, the sun rising like a dull coin behind the fog. Mist clung to the trees, wrapping low across the earth as though the forest itself wished to smother its secrets. The wagons stirred to life, their axles creaking, oxen snorting plumes of steam that mingled with the breath of weary men.
Leo walked in silence, wrists still bound, the rope frayed but unyielding. A guard flanked him on either side, their spears angled close enough that the tips brushed his shoulder when he strayed from the line. Their vigilance was wordless, but the quick glances at his bandaged palm told him more than their silence ever could. Beneath the cloth, faint light pulsed through like a heartbeat, seen even when they tried not to look. Every flicker made their hands twitch tighter on their shafts of iron-tipped ashwood.
Ahead, the captain rode her chestnut mare with her back straight as a drawn sword. Her scar caught the newborn sun and burned white against her bronze skin, unsoftened by time or pity. She never looked back, yet Leo felt her gaze press on him like a weight that bent his shoulders lower with every mile.
"Keep your head down," muttered the toothless guard at his side, spitting into the mud. "Fewer eyes on you, fewer knives in your back."
Leo ignored him, eyes fixed on the road.
The dirt track was old, pressed flat by centuries of wheels, yet stubborn weeds clawed through its cracks, sprouting defiantly as if mocking every caravan that thought to tame the land. The forest leaned in from both sides, branches tangled like blackened fingers, their leaves whispering in a tongue too soft to understand. Somewhere overhead, a crow gave a single rasping caw, then was swallowed by the silence that followed.
Behind him the wagons groaned, heavy with their loads. The scent of spice and dried fruit drifted faintly from the covered carts, warm and sweet, but it was chased quickly by another smell, iron and oil, sharp as blood and steel.
Owen, the young scribe who had taken to shadowing him, caught his glance. The boy's quill-patched satchel bounced against his hip as he leaned close. "Trade goods," he whispered, almost apologetic, as though excuses needed to be offered for the weight they carried.
Leo frowned. "What kind of goods?"
Owen's boot tapped against the side of a broad crate, the sound hollow, unforgiving. "Steel fittings. Hinges, blades, nails. Some bound for the southern holds. Some for… other hands. The captain doesn't say, and we don't ask."
His eyes darted to the nearest guard before he lowered his voice further. "Council, maybe. Or warlords. Depends who pays better."
The shard stirred, its voice slithering into Leo's skull like hot smoke.
Weapons. Blood. Power hungers for a hand. And hands are never empty for long.
Leo clenched his jaw, shaking the whisper away, though the pulse in his palm quickened. He fixed instead on Owen's face,the boy's expression was wary but curious, never quite tipping into fear the way the others had.
"You trust her?" Leo asked, nodding toward the rider ahead.
Owen's gaze followed. "Sofia? She's iron. Cold when she needs to be, cruel if the road demands it. But she's kept us alive where others vanish without a trace. That's enough for me."
Their words died when the captain slowed her mare, guiding it alongside the line until her shadow fell over Leo. Her eyes found his at once, sharp, unblinking.
"You walk because I allow it," she said, her tone flat as hammered steel. "Don't mistake rope for mercy."
Leo met her gaze, unflinching. "You're afraid of me."
Her jaw tightened, her scar twisting as she bit back a snarl. "I fear nothing. But I measure threats. And you…" Her eyes flicked briefly to the glow under his bandages. "…you burn brighter than most."
The shard purred, pleased.
Yes. Brighter. She sees it. Even those who despise you cannot ignore the fire that leaks from your skin.
Leo ground his teeth, pulling his fists against the rope until cords bit deep into raw flesh. He turned away before she could read the conflict on his face. Yet as she wheeled her mare forward, he caught something in her eyes, not hatred, not yet. Calculation.
Hours dragged like chains.
The forest thinned at last, giving way to low, scarred hills. Charred trunks jutted against the horizon, skeletal and black, the air clinging with a faint acrid tang. The wagons rattled into desolation. Here the earth was pale with ash, cracked and dry, as if fire had eaten even its marrow.
"Reckoning Fields," Owen whispered. His voice shook, though he tried to sound like a man reciting history. "They say a thousand dead were left to rot after the wars here. Beneath every step, bone dust. Some nights, when the wind is cruel, you can hear them walk."
Leo said nothing, but his chest tightened. The ground felt wrong beneath him, hollow, like it carried memory instead of soil. The air pressed heavy, as though unseen hands dragged at his ribs.
The shard pulsed once, hot as fever. Souls untethered. Hunger walks here. A feast, if you dared take it.
Leo stumbled, breath catching. He forced his gaze forward, yet in the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement between the blackened stumps, shapes not of man, nor beast, but ash itself shifting like breath.
The captain raised her hand. At once the caravan halted, wheels groaning, oxen stamping nervously.
Her voice carried across the stillness. "Eyes open. Shields up. This land remembers. And it does not forgive the careless."
Guards stiffened, spears lowered, eyes raking the gray horizon. Even the air seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the creak of leather straps, the restless shifting of beasts.
And beneath it, faint, fleeting, Leo heard it too.
A whisper.
Not from his hand. Not from the shard.
From the earth itself, riding the ash-scented wind.
Leo shivered, ropes biting tighter as his body trembled. For the first time, he realized the shard's voice was not the only one following him.