Chapter 5 — Lines Drawn in Dirt
The road north did not widen to welcome them.
It narrowed.
What had once been a trader's route had eroded into a scar through the land—mud-packed, rutted by old wagons and newer flight. Trees leaned in close, branches scraping against cloaks and armor as if trying to listen.
Mikkel walked at the head of the column.
Behind him came twenty-seven villagers from the burned settlement, what little they had salvaged bundled in cloth or carried on their backs. Children walked in the center, flanked by soldiers who had learned quickly not to let fear show on their faces.
This was no longer a march.
It was an evacuation.
Signe Rasmussen fell into step beside Mikkel, helm off, ash-blond hair damp with sweat. She glanced back over her shoulder, counting heads for the third time in as many minutes.
"You know they'll slow us down," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"And if Graymarch follows—"
"Yes."
She huffed. "You're consistent, I'll give you that."
Mikkel didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the bend ahead, where the road dipped toward a stand of trees thick enough to hide a dozen ambushes.
Behind them, Freja moved with the refugees, kneeling now and then to adjust a child's bundle or offer water to an elderly man whose steps were growing uneven. She did not speak much, but when she did, people listened.
Liv ranged ahead and to the sides, appearing and vanishing among the trees like a rumor. Every so often, she would raise a hand—two fingers, then one—signals that Mikkel had already learned to read.
Clear.
Watchful.
Havel rode near the rear, face grim, eyes calculating. He had not argued when the refugees joined them—but Mikkel could feel the questions stacking behind his silence.
They stopped at midday near a shallow stream.
The soldiers dropped packs gratefully, some collapsing onto rocks or fallen logs. The villagers clustered together instinctively, uncertain where they were allowed to sit, where they were permitted to exist.
Mikkel watched that separation form.
It bothered him more than the aching in his legs.
He stepped onto a flat stone near the stream and raised his voice—not loud, but firm enough to carry.
"Listen," he said.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned.
"We'll rest here for an hour," Mikkel continued. "Water's safe. Food will be shared."
A murmur rippled through the refugees.
One of the soldiers—a thick-necked man with a scarred cheek—frowned. "Shared how?"
Mikkel met his gaze. "Equally."
The man scoffed. "They're not enlisted."
"They're alive," Mikkel replied. "That's enough."
A few soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Others nodded.
Signe crossed her arms, watching carefully.
"No hoarding," Mikkel added. "No pushing. Anyone who has extra gives it up now."
Silence followed.
Then a young soldier stepped forward and placed a wrapped loaf on the ground.
Another followed.
Slowly, reluctantly, the pile grew.
Freja began organizing distribution immediately, pairing soldiers with villagers, making sure children were fed first. She worked without comment, as if this had always been the rule.
The scarred soldier hesitated, then tossed his ration onto the pile with a curse.
Mikkel let it pass.
Rules, he knew, were not enforced once.
They were enforced consistently.
As people ate, tension eased—just a little.
Elna Thorsen sat apart, back straight, watching everything with sharp eyes. When Mikkel approached, she did not look away.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "I did."
Her lips pressed thin. "Your soldiers won't like it."
"Some won't," Mikkel agreed.
"And if they turn on you?"
"Then I'll know early."
That earned a short, humorless smile.
"You think like a leader," Elna said.
Mikkel shook his head. "I think like someone who's seen what happens when people are divided."
She studied him for a moment longer. "That's worse."
The rest passed without incident.
They moved again before the sun dipped too low, pushing hard to reach a defensible rise before nightfall. By the time they stopped, the refugees were exhausted, children half-carried by soldiers who pretended not to notice.
Camp was rough—no walls, no fire beyond shielded embers—but it was orderly.
That was the difference.
Mikkel walked the perimeter after dark, checking watch positions, listening to the wind. Liv joined him without announcement.
"Tracks," she said softly. "Old. But close."
"How close?"
"Two days. Maybe less."
He nodded. "They'll follow the refugees."
"Yes."
"And test us."
Liv's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Good."
He glanced at her. "You don't mind being hunted."
"I mind being predictable," she replied.
They reached the edge of camp where Freja sat with a small group of villagers, quietly telling a child a story Mikkel couldn't hear. Her voice was low, steady, wrapping around the frightened like a blanket.
When she noticed him, she rose and approached.
"You're bleeding again," she said.
He glanced down. A fresh scrape across his knuckles.
"It's nothing."
She took his hand anyway, cleaning the wound with practiced ease.
"You can't carry everyone alone," she said quietly.
"I'm not."
She met his eyes. "Then let people help."
Before he could answer, raised voices cut through the night.
Near the fire, the scarred soldier from earlier stood facing Elna, jaw tight.
"We should've left you," the soldier snapped. "Now we're slower, weaker—"
"And alive," Elna shot back. "Which you might not be if we weren't."
The soldier's hand clenched.
Signe was there instantly, stepping between them, presence radiating threat.
"Enough," she said. "Both of you."
The soldier turned on her. "You're fine with this? Risking the unit for civilians?"
"Yes," Signe said flatly. "Because if we don't, we're not a unit. We're hired blades."
The man scoffed. "Easy to say when you're not the one starving."
Mikkel stepped into the light.
"Then leave," he said.
The words cut clean.
Everyone froze.
The soldier stared at him. "What?"
"You heard me," Mikkel continued. "If you believe the civilians are expendable, you don't belong here."
"You don't have authority—"
"No," Mikkel agreed. "I have responsibility."
Silence stretched.
The soldier's eyes flicked around—at Signe's unreadable expression, at Freja's steady gaze, at the villagers watching with fear and hope intertwined.
Finally, he spat on the ground.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'll stay."
Mikkel nodded. "Good. Then follow the rules."
The tension broke slowly, like ice thawing.
Later, when the camp slept, Havel approached Mikkel.
"You're drawing lines," the quartermaster said quietly.
"Yes."
"Without rank."
"Yes."
Havel shook his head. "You know where that leads."
"Somewhere," Mikkel replied, "is better than nowhere."
Havel studied him for a long moment.
"When we reach the garrison," he said, "there will be questions."
"I know."
"And answers?"
Mikkel looked out over the camp—the soldiers, the refugees, Freja's quiet presence, Liv's watchful silhouette, Signe sharpening her blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Yes," he said. "There will be answers."
As the night deepened, a distant horn sounded—faint, far away.
Graymarch.
Mikkel closed his eyes briefly.
The road was narrowing.
And he was no longer walking it alone.