The march east was not measured in miles, but in weight. Each step I took pressed deeper into me than the earth beneath my boots. I was carrying more than my own body now—I carried the South, I carried their faith, their fear, their blood, and the shadows of those who had fallen to make room for me in this cursed path. I no longer walked among them. I walked before them, my shadow stretched by the torchlight, long and jagged as a spear.
I could feel their eyes. Some were reverent, some fearful, most unreadable. But not a single soul dared to look me in the face when I turned my head. It was as if I had stepped out of their ranks and into something else entirely—an untouchable thing, half man, half storm. I was the one who had survived the circle, the one who had torn a victory from death's throat. They had their triumph, but I had only the fracture it left behind.
