They were woken before dawn.
Not roughly. Not gently. Just early, with the kind of efficiency that suggested the decision had been made long before anyone slept.
The escort captain spoke while the camp was still half-shadowed. "Orders have changed."
No one asked whose.
The wagons were left behind with half the escort. The wounded went with them. The rest were divided and reassigned without ceremony. Names were read. Directions given.
When his was called, it was paired with a destination instead of a task.
"North," the captain said. "You'll travel with us."
"Yes," he said.
He did not ask why.
The road north was better kept.
Stone replaced dirt. Milestones stood upright instead of half-buried. The land on either side was worked, claimed, measured. Walls were mended. Ditches cleared.
The escort rode closer now.
Not threateningly. Deliberately.
At midday, they stopped near a wayhouse that still bore its sign. Bread was bought. Water shared. No one lingered.
One of the riders studied him as they mounted again.
"You're being moved up the chain," the man said.
He looked at him. "Sir?"
The rider shrugged. "That's what it means when orders stop including reasons."
He accepted that quietly.
They rode on.
By the second day, banners appeared along the road.
Not raised for ceremony. Just present. Markers of jurisdiction. Each one different. Each one watched.
They passed a crossroads where a small crowd had gathered around a collapsed stone marker. The road beside it had sunk unevenly, forcing carts to detour.
An official stood nearby, arguing with a merchant.
"This wasn't like this yesterday," the merchant insisted.
"Roads settle," the official replied. "Move along."
The escort did not stop.
He did not look back.
The ache did not come.
They reached the outskirts of a garrison town by evening.
Stone walls. Signal fires unlit. Guards at the gate who did not ask questions when the captain showed his papers.
Inside, the streets were narrow and clean. Too clean. As if swept recently with intent.
They were led to a low administrative building near the center. No banners. No ornament. Just doors that opened when knocked.
An officer waited inside. Older. Better dressed. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with marching.
"You're reassigned again," the officer said, glancing at a ledger.
"Yes, sir."
"This will not be escort duty."
He nodded once.
"You'll be attached to logistics," the officer continued. "Temporary. You'll move where told. You'll observe. You'll report nothing unless asked."
"Yes, sir."
The officer hesitated, then looked up.
"You were at the field," he said.
It was not a question.
"Yes, sir."
Another pause.
"Very well," the officer said. "That will be all."
He was dismissed without ceremony.
That night, he slept under a roof for the first time since the battle.
The ache did not wake him.
Outside, somewhere between the roads and the walls, stone settled where it had stood too long under strain.
No one marked it.
Not yet.