The men in uniform grew restless as the convoy pushed deeper into the new route. Their shoulders stiffened beneath worn armor, hands tightening over rifles. They did not speak, but the tension spoke for them.
Nicolo pretended not to listen, but the voices of the Ascenders two rows behind carried easily through the silence.
"The wilderness stirs," said Maris, a sharp-eyed woman with hair cut close to her scalp. Her gaze swept the windows as though she could see through the night. "Too much luck in the air. That boy reeks of it."
Her companion, Daron, grunted, broad shoulders hunched beneath his cloak. "Luck or not, dwellers don't care. They smell fear. And we're hauling a wagon full of it."
Nicolo's breath caught, but he forced his face still. 12 shifted beside him, leaning close enough to whisper. "They're talking about you, aren't they?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at the three other children pressed together opposite them—a boy with hollow cheeks, and two younger girls clutching each other's hands. He gave them a faint nod, as if to promise something he wasn't sure he could keep. They stared back with wide, terrified eyes.
Minutes stretched into hours, though time felt broken.
Then—one by one—the lamps flickered. Out. On. Out again. The soldiers cursed softly, striking the lamps with their palms, but the glow only dimmed further until the car was drenched in long, stretching shadows.
Something shifted beyond the convoy walls. Too quick to be windy, too heavy to be leaves.
The compass on Nicolo's lap whirled, both needles spinning really violently.
Every breath in the car froze.