We rode hard. No breaks longer than ten minutes. No campfires at night. Just cold rations, cold ground, and the kind of silence that settles over a group when everyone knows they're heading toward something that might kill them.
The team was bigger this time. Me, Kaelon, Orzoth, Kirael, Thorn, Elyan, Nysha. Seven. Same number as Arhenor, minus the two agents, plus Orzoth. I'd wanted to keep it small, but Kaelon insisted on bringing two of his scouts — Dren and Halke — to ride ahead and map the terrain. Nine total.
Nine people between whatever was at the border and the rest of the world.
No pressure.
The first two days were uneventful. We followed the northern trade road until it ended at the ruins of an old waystation — one of the ones the Order had used during the Great War. Nothing left but crumbling walls and a well that had gone dry decades ago. Thorn checked the ground. No movement. No heartbeats. Just dead earth and old ghosts.
