Dawn came slowly.
Mist clung low to the earth, pale and ghostlike across the fields. The chill had deepened in the hours before sunrise, settling into bone and breath alike.
Sir Wilkinson rose first.
He scanned the horizon before speaking, listening for any remnant of the night's predators. Hearing none, he motioned for Roald to follow.
They retraced their path cautiously.
The reeds parted where they had torn through them. Their abandoned trail lay written plainly in bent grass and disturbed soil.
When they crested the final rise—
The campfire's ashes still smoldered faintly.
The earth bore the marks of their earlier struggle.
But the mechanical cart was gone.
Sir Wilkinson did not speak.
He stepped forward once, twice, eyes moving across the ground in widening arcs.
The space where the cart had stood was empty save for deep wheel ruts pressed into damp soil.
Fresh.
Roald's stomach dropped.
"Sir…"
Still no reply.
Sir Wilkinson knelt slowly, studying the impressions. He ran his mechanical fingers through one of the grooves, feeling depth, weight distribution.
Not wolves.
Not accident.
The tracks were deliberate. Straight. Controlled.
One conclusion presented itself.
"Woodland thieves," he said quietly.
The words were calm.
His posture was not.
The boatwright rose to his full height. His jaw tightened. A muscle along his temple pulsed once. His natural hand curled and uncurled at his side, as though resisting the urge to strike something that no longer stood before him.
Roald watched carefully.
He had never seen Sir Wilkinson so visibly strained.
The cart was not merely transport.
It was invention. Precision. Years of refinement.
It was memory.
The boatwright turned slowly, scanning the tree line where the field gave way to thicker woodland.
For a moment — only a moment — anger flashed clean across his features.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
But sharp.
Roald held his breath.
He sensed something fragile in the air — like a stretched wire that must not be snapped.
Sir Wilkinson inhaled deeply.
Once.
Twice.
When he spoke again, his voice was level.
"We are in unfamiliar ground," he said. "They will have known it better than we."
He turned slightly away, gaze fixed on the narrowing wheel tracks leading toward the woods.
"I can continue forward," he said, almost to himself. "Abandon it. Reach Dillaclor on foot."
The word abandon lingered.
Or—
He did not finish the thought.
Roald stepped forward.
"We shouldn't leave it," he said.
Sir Wilkinson looked at him.
There was no challenge in Roald's expression — only resolve.
"I've been here before," Roald continued. "These woods."
The boatwright's brow furrowed slightly.
"My father used to bring us to gather timber," Roald said. "When the river ran low."
He pointed toward a slight depression between two stands of birch.
"There's a dry ridge beyond that line. And farther in, an old limestone hollow. Men use it when they don't wish to be seen."
Sir Wilkinson's gaze sharpened.
"And how would you know that?"
Roald swallowed once.
"Lomor taught us tracking here," he said. "Me and Tiev."
A flicker of memory passed across his face — the scent of bark, the snap of twigs under careful feet, the low voice of his eldest brother instructing without praise.
"He said prints tell you what a man doesn't," Roald continued. "Weight. Direction. Whether he's burdened. Whether he's afraid."
Sir Wilkinson studied him differently now.
Not as cargo.
Not as apprentice.
As resource.
"The thieves moved the cart," Roald said quietly. "It's heavy. They won't have taken it far without cover."
He crouched and examined the wheel ruts himself.
"See here," he added, pointing. "The left rut is deeper."
Sir Wilkinson knelt beside him.
"They struggled to steer it," Roald finished. "They don't understand the balance."
The boatwright's frustration cooled further, replaced by something more focused.
"Yes," he murmured.
Roald looked up.
"If we follow carefully," he said, "we might find them before they understand what they've taken."
Silence held for several heartbeats.
Sir Wilkinson stood slowly.
The choice lay clear.
Abandon invention — and protect only the future.
Or pursue — and teach the boy what reclaiming one's work requires.
He looked at Roald again.
"You are certain you know these woods?"
Roald nodded.
"Yes, sir."
The faintest trace of approval touched Sir Wilkinson's expression.
"Then we retrieve it," he said.
No anger now.
Only purpose.
He adjusted his coat, secured the dagger once more at his side, and gestured toward the tree line.
"Lead."
Roald hesitated only a fraction of a second — then stepped forward into the woods he had once entered as a boy beside his brothers.
But this time, he did not follow.
He guided.
And behind him, the boatwright moved in silence — no longer alone in responsibility, but sharing the weight of what lay ahead.
The forest swallowed them.