The wind howled through the mountain pass, carrying with it the scent of rain and the sharp tang of ozone. Quinn braced himself against the gust, his eyes scanning the twisting trail ahead. Every step forward felt heavier, not just from the slope but from the weight of the decision looming over him. Behind, the faint shuffle of boots echoed—his companions pushing to keep pace despite exhaustion.
Cassian, usually unshakable, now had his jaw set tight, the strain showing in the lines around his eyes. "We need shelter before that storm hits," he said, voice raised over the wind.
"We don't have time," Quinn replied, glancing at the lowering clouds. "If the informant's right, the convoy passes the ridge in less than an hour. We miss it, and we lose the trail for good."
Liora, who had been trailing quietly, finally spoke, her voice edged with frustration. "And what if you collapse before then? You've been running on fumes for days." Her eyes locked with his, unflinching. "You're not the only one with skin in this fight, Quinn."
The words stung because they were true. He was pushing himself past reason, driven by something between vengeance and obligation. But stopping now meant surrendering to the forces that had already taken too much.
A jagged fork of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the narrow ridge ahead. The group's pace quickened despite the danger, boots sliding on slick stone. The rain began as a mist but quickly thickened, soaking their cloaks and chilling their bones.
They reached the ridge just as the sound of distant wheels and the clink of metal drifted upward through the rain. The convoy. Quinn dropped low, signaling the others to follow. The shapes emerged below—wagons guarded by armored riders, their banners snapping in the wind.
Cassian studied them, his brow furrowed. "More guards than expected. They're anticipating trouble."
"Then they're not wrong," Quinn muttered, fingers tightening on the hilt of his blade. But something in his gut twisted—this was too neat, too perfect. The storm, the timing, the surplus of guards—it felt like a stage set for a trap.
Before he could voice the thought, a sharp hiss cut through the rain. An arrow buried itself in the ground beside Liora's boot. She spun, eyes wide, as dark figures emerged from the rocks above them.
Ambush.
The fight erupted instantly. Quinn's sword met steel with a screech, sparks dancing between blows. Cassian's axe cleaved through the nearest attacker, even as two more closed in on him. Liora ducked low, driving a dagger into the side of a foe before rolling away from another strike.
The rain turned the battle into chaos—mud sucking at their feet, water blurring their vision, the storm swallowing the cries of the wounded. Quinn's arms burned with the effort of parrying blow after blow.
Then he saw it—the lead wagon below had stopped, its door opening just enough for a shadowy figure to slip out. Even from this distance, Quinn recognized the shape of the medallion at the figure's throat.
The target.
He had a choice—keep fighting alongside his friends or break through the chaos and end this now.
Lightning flashed again, and in that split second of brightness, Quinn made his decision.