The borderlands had carved a new rhythm into us, one of constant, low-grade tension and profound, exhausting beauty. Days were measured in passes cleared, rivers forded, and the gradual, relentless climb into thinner, colder air. My secret practices continued, a desperate clutch at control amidst the wildness, but they were harder now, the raw energy of the land a constant static trying to bleed into my careful channels.
A week into the true north, we camped on a high, windswept bluff. Below, a vast, dark-green forest stretched like a rumpled blanket to the horizon. Behind us, the way we'd come was lost in a haze of distance and cloud. The knights were tending to gear with a quiet efficiency, the ease of the southern road a distant memory.
