The journey back through the Thornwood took two days.
Marron had thought the walk out had been hard—fleeing Edmund's pursuit, fighting the medicine's failure, racing to intercept Greaves before the tools' resonance destroyed her completely. But the return was worse in different ways.
It was slower, and every step carried the weight of what happened.
Greaves walked between them, bound and silent. He'd stopped trying to escape after the first few hours, stopped calculating angles and efficiency. Now he just shuffled forward, his eyes distant, lost in thoughts Marron could only imagine.
The mandoline remained wrapped and sealed in its bag, slung across Aldric's back. They'd argued about who should carry it—neither wanted that weight, literal or metaphorical. But Aldric had insisted. "You're carrying enough," he'd said, looking at the Blade at Marron's hip, at Lucy on her shoulder, at the grief written across her face.
