The escort set out before dawn.
The road was narrower here, the ground less decided about what it wanted to be. Grass thinned into patches. Dirt gave way to stone and back again without warning. The riders spread slightly, keeping the column tight without closing it in.
No one said anything about where to step.
He noticed that.
The mistake was choosing the shorter path.
It cut across a stretch of open ground just off the road, flattened by old traffic and dry enough to look trustworthy in the half-light. No markers stood there. No one had blocked it off.
He stepped onto it without thinking.
The ground held.
He took another step.
Still solid.
A third.
Then his foot slid sideways as the earth beneath it gave way, collapsing inward with a soft, wet sound. He went down hard, the breath knocked out of him. Mud soaked through his trousers and filled one boot.
"Careful," someone snapped behind him.
A rider dismounted and hauled him upright by the arm. "Watch where you step."
"Yes," he said.
The rider glanced at the ground, then back at him, irritation already fading. "Stay on the road."
The column adjusted around the collapse and moved on.
No one was hurt. Nothing was lost. The hole they left behind was shallow and already settling, as if the ground were eager to erase it.
It should have ended there.
They walked for another quarter hour before the ache came.
Not sharp.Not urgent.
A dull pressure behind his eyes.
He slowed.
The pressure eased.
He stopped.
It faded entirely.
He took a step forward.
It returned.
He stepped back.
It eased again.
He stood still, heart beating faster than it should have, and waited.
Nothing else happened.
No sound. No shift in the air. No sign anyone else felt anything at all.
He resumed walking, keeping to the road this time. The pressure lingered for a few steps, then faded on its own.
He did not test it again.
They reached camp by midmorning.
The escorts chose the site without discussion and set the camp quickly.
As the perimeter was checked, one of the riders slipped near the edge of the clearing. The ground there had softened unexpectedly, the soil breaking underfoot. The man swore as he went down, twisting his ankle.
Nothing serious. Enough to slow him for days.
They marked the spot and moved on.
Later, as the light shifted and shadows lengthened, the ground where the rider had fallen collapsed inward, just slightly. Not enough to matter. Not enough to draw comment.
He watched it from where he sat.
The ache did not return.
He looked away.
That night, lying on his back and staring at the dark, he understood one thing clearly:
The world did not stop him from making mistakes.
It only answered them.