They left before the sun cleared the treeline.
The wounded were moved first. Those who could still walk did so with help. The rest were lifted without ceremony and settled into wagons stripped of anything that rattled.
This time, the road did not belong to them alone.
Two riders took the front. Two more followed at a distance. None wore insignia worth remarking on, which felt deliberate. Their armor was plain, serviceable, recently cleaned.
Escort duty.
No one explained it. No one asked.
He walked where he had been told.
The air felt unchanged.
That unsettled him more than the tightness had. He kept waiting for the familiar pressure to return—for the dull ache behind his eyes, for the sense that the ground was holding its breath.
Nothing came.
They passed a shallow stream before midday. The water ran clear, but the banks were trampled flat where men had crossed it in numbers. One of the wounded asked for a pause. The lead rider nodded without looking back.
As they waited, he crouched and rinsed mud from his hands.
The water felt cold. Ordinary.
He stood and stepped away from the stream.
A moment later, one of the horses shied.
The rider swore under his breath and pulled it back into line. "Watch your footing," he muttered.
The ground near the bank had softened, slicker than it should have been.
No one commented on it.
They moved on.
By afternoon, the land rose gently. Fields gave way to scrub and low stone walls that marked old boundaries no one enforced anymore. The road narrowed, forcing the column to compress.
One of the escort riders fell back alongside him.
"You keep pace" the man said.
He glanced up. The rider's face was young, unremarkable, already tired.
"Yes," he said.
The rider nodded, as if that confirmed something, then let his horse drift forward again.
No further words were exchanged.
They made camp early.
The escorts chose the ground. High enough to drain. Clear enough to see approach. The wounded were placed near the center. Fires were kept low.
He was told where to sleep.
No one told him why.
As dusk settled, the air cooled quickly. He lay on his back and watched the sky fade from pale to dark.
For a time, nothing pressed against him. No warning. No sense of strain.
Then—after he shifted his weight, after his heel crushed a patch of brittle grass—the ache came.
Not sharp.
Not urgent.
Just enough to notice.
He froze.
Nothing happened.
The ache eased slowly, like a hand withdrawing.
He stared at the dark and let his breath even out.
So it wasn't direction.
It was correction.
He closed his eyes and waited for sleep.