The whistle echoed again—cold, piercing, and merciless—bouncing off the canyon walls like a song of death.
Just like before, the Cohort paused, confusion flickering across their faces… only for it to vanish. The whistle faded, and with it, their memories, not just of the sound, but of the missing tents, the strange march, and everything in between.
Joseph suffered the worst of all.
Every time the whistle rang out, he forgot the theft. And every time he rediscovered it, he exploded in rage, shouting threats, tearing through supplies, only to lose it all again hours later—a cruel loop he was doomed to repeat.
But Damien's attention was elsewhere now. Joseph's tantrums, the stolen food, none of it mattered anymore.
Because Blythe had given them water.
Water from the river.
Water tainted by something far beyond their understanding.
