The road ran low, following the shape the land preferred.
It was rutted from carts and pressed flat by marching boots, packed hard enough that grass struggled to claim it. The wounded were placed at the front of the column. Those who could walk leaned on those who could not. The rest were carried on doors pulled from hinges, shields lashed together, cloaks knotted into slings.
He walked with them.
The pace was slow and uneven. Too fast for comfort, too slow to forget where they had come from.
No one spoke unless they had to. Pain demanded attention. Talking did not help.
Somewhere behind him, a man began to cry. No one told him to stop. He did, eventually.
The air felt ordinary.
He noticed it only because it had not felt that way before. The tightness that had followed him off the field was gone. Not replaced by relief. Just absent, like a weight removed so gradually it was easy to forget it had been there at all.
He did not trust the feeling.
They passed a broken milestone half-buried at the side of the road. Whatever had once been carved into it had been worn down by years of weather and passing hands. Only the first letter remained.
No one slowed to read it.
As the road bent toward lower ground, a mounted officer waited with three men. Their horses were clean. Their armor bore no dents worth mentioning.
The column halted.
The officer consulted a slate, then looked up.
"You with the cracked shield," he said.
He stepped forward.
The officer's gaze moved over him once—boots, armor, hands—before returning to the slate.
"You'll be reassigned," the officer said.
"Yes, sir."
"For now, escort duty."
The words meant little by themselves. They were the sort of words used when there was no reason yet, only intention.
"To where, sir?" he asked.
The officer hesitated. Not long. Just enough to notice.
"South," he said. "With the wounded."
He nodded once.
As he stepped back into line, something shifted.
Not pressure.
Not relief.
Just a faint sense of adjustment, as if something had been moved and had not yet decided whether it belonged.
The column moved on.
He did not look back.