21 understood.
The words of the scroll had vanished, but they continued to claw at his mind. Every glance he cast across the car—the frightened children, the tense men in uniform, even the two Ascenders seated like coiled predators—only tightened the weight on his chest.
It was his fault. All of it.
The orphanage's suffering, the uniformed men's arrival, even the cursed convoy route. His luck had attracted every misery and every opportunity in equal measure, but the balance was never kind to those around him. The scroll's cruel truth replayed endlessly: glory to him, suffering to others.
Across from him, 12 shifted uncomfortably. Her green eyes caught the lamplight like twin shards of emerald, but they no longer shone with curiosity. They shone with suspicion. She had noticed his sudden stiffness, the way he clenched the broken compass in his palm until his skin bled.
He looked away quickly, raising his eyes to the dark window. Out there, beyond the fragile lamps of the convoy, the wilderness breathed. The silence wasn't empty—it was listening.
A whisper from his discipleship days slipped into his memory: "Every star charts a path, but not every path leads home. To walk it, you must choose."
He exhaled slowly. Choice
The convoy shuddered over uneven ground, and the lamps inside their car flickered once, dimming to an orange glow before steadying. The children whimpered and huddled closer.
Outside, somewhere far yet near, a low rumble trembled through the night like a beast dragging its claws.