They did not stop walking until the smoke was a smear behind the trees and the taste of poison thinned on their tongues. Even then, no one spoke of rest. They only slowed. The forest pressed close, cool and damp, as if trying to wash the town's heat from their skin.
Rowan's throat burned. Every breath scraped raw. When he coughed, it felt like he was pulling nettles out of his lungs. He kept seeing the boy's face—the shock of green in his eyes, the way Ari's arrow had ended it. The picture sat in him like a stone.
Brennar said nothing. He kept pace a step ahead, broad back steady as a wall. Once, when Rowan stumbled on a root, Brennar's hand shot back without looking and caught his elbow. He didn't squeeze. He didn't speak. He only held the weight for a heartbeat and let go.
They found a place where old oaks arched over a slow bend of the river. The bank was soft with moss. The water muttered low, as if it knew not to make a fuss. Ari checked the edges. Nyx vanished and returned once, eyes colder than usual. Lyra made them sit.
"Breath first," she said quietly. "Small sips." She crushed a twist of green and held it under Rowan's nose. The scent was sharp, clean, like cut pine. "This will ease the sting."
He breathed, and the itch in his chest lifted a little. The water at his side felt like a hand on his ribs, matching his inhale and exhale, slow and sure. He swallowed, and the taste of gas stepped back.
They set a small fire—no higher than Rowan's palm—and built it under a fallen limb so the smoke would cling low. Brennar sharpened his axe without looking at the blade, only listening to the scrape. Ari cleaned her arrows like she meant to skin anger off them. Nyx sat with her back to a root and stared into the dark, the space around her somehow darker still.
No one mentioned the boy. The silence did that for them.
When the light faded, Rowan stood and moved to the river's edge. He stacked three smooth stones with shaking fingers—small, smaller, smallest. He didn't know the boy's name. He said one anyway, under his breath, soft enough that only the water heard.
Brennar came and stood beside him. He took off his glove and set it on the ground, a simple thing, palm up, empty. He left it there a count of ten and put it back on. "For what wasn't held," he muttered.
Rowan's eyes stung again. He nodded.
They ate nothing. No one was hungry.
Ashwyn had not sat with the rest. He stood a little apart, where the roots rose like ribs and the moss lay thick as a blanket. He watched the trees as if listening to a slow story. When he finally turned back to them, the flecks of gold in his eyes caught the fire and made it seem small.
He spoke in a voice like stone rolled in earth. "There are rumors of nights like this," he said. "Until today, you had only the rumor. Now you have the night."
Ari's jaw worked once. "I'd heard of children taken," she said. "Never saw one turn. Never wanted to."
Nyx did not look up. "Wanting doesn't change what is."
Rowan's throat tightened. "It… could have been me." He looked at Brennar. The big man didn't meet his eyes, but his hand rose and set Rowan's blanket closer to the fire, straightening the edge as if small neatness could hold back a world that broke.
"It wasn't you," Brennar said. "Because someone stood in the way."
Rowan swallowed hard. He didn't trust his voice enough to answer.
Lyra put more pine on the coals. The smoke sweetened. "It will get harder," she said softly. "Not easier."
Ashwyn's gaze passed over them each in turn, the way a river passes stones and knows their shapes. "The strings are speaking," he said. "The trees agree. Five threads, knotted by more than chance." He lifted a finger with each word. "An Elemental. A Berserker. A Seer. A Shadow. A Healer." His mouth tipped, not quite a smile. "Odd… but balanced."
Brennar snorted, but the sound had no bite. "Balanced or not, we can't be everywhere."
"No," Ashwyn said. "But you can be where the strings pull."
Rowan stared at the fire until it blurred. "What does that even mean? I swore I'd be a wall, but a wall needs a place to stand. We keep moving, and the ground keeps giving way."
Ashwyn closed his eyes for a breath, like a man tasting rain. When he opened them, his voice was simpler. "I have stood apart too long," he said. "Judging, weighing, letting the forest decide for me. I will walk with you now."
No one moved.
Ari lowered her head. The line of her mouth eased, just a shade. Nyx's eyes flicked to him and away, as if measuring the cost and finding it acceptable. Rowan didn't realize he was holding his breath until he let it out. The weight in his chest shifted—not gone, but no longer crushing.
Brennar grunted. "If you're coming, you carry your share."
"More than that," Ashwyn said. "When I walk, my forest thins. I cannot leave it long. But for a time, it will walk with me."
He lifted two fingers and whistled, a sound so small it could have been a bird. The leaves on the far bank stirred. A shape slid from the brush without sound. The wolf—broad as Brennar's chest, eyes gold as grain—moved like a shadow had taught itself muscle. It padded to the edge of camp and laid a young deer at Ashwyn's feet, throat clean.
Ashwyn knelt and set his hand on its head. "Life pays for life," he said, not grand, not soft, only true. "Eat."
Brennar's eyebrows rose. "I could get used to that."
Ari gave him a look. "Show some respect."
"I am," he said. "To supper."
They dressed the deer in low voices. Ari's knife made neat work. Brennar held the legs one-handed like it weighed nothing. Nyx fetched water without being asked. Lyra salted meat and set a small pot to catch fat. Rowan watched the wolf watch them. It was not a dog. It was not tame. It only approved.
They ate slow. The first mouthful sat heavy, then steadied the hands holding the bowls. The river talked in its sleep, and Rowan's breath started to match it again.
After a while, Ashwyn reached into his cloak and drew out a scrap of leather, charred at one edge. He set it on the log between them. A broken ring of iron hung from the scrap—a shackle link, too small for a grown wrist.
Rowan stared at the metal. His skin crawled. "From the town?"
"Near the gate," Ashwyn said. "And this." He turned the leather over. A faint stamp showed when the firelight hit it right—a circle with three vertical lines inside, crossed by a bar. Half the mark was burned away, but the shape was clear.
Ari leaned close. "I've seen that on timber wagons," she said. "Old road guilds used it. South and east."
Nyx's gaze sharpened. "Caravans."
Brennar's jaw set. "Chains."
Rowan's stomach turned. "They steal Flickers before they Awaken," he said. "Sell them. Deliver them." The last word tasted worse than smoke.
Ashwyn nodded once. "I have heard the strings hum of such things. I have not had hands to pull them. Now I do."
Rowan lifted his head. "Then we go after them."
"Not tonight," Lyra said gently. "Not with poison still in your chest."
He touched his ribs and felt the truth of it—raw, tender, not ready for a run or a fight. He forced himself to sit back.
Ashwyn folded the charred scrap and tucked it away. "Chains move along the old timber road," he said. "South and east. Slow. Heavy. The hawks will find their dust. We will follow."
Ari glanced up. "Hawks?"
Ashwyn's eyes warmed, just a fraction. "The forest is not only wolves."
They sat with that for a time.
Rowan stared at the three stones by the river until the shapes went soft. "We can't just keep moving, can we?" he said at last. "Not after this. Not if there are chains on the road."
Ashwyn shook his head. "No. The path does not let you wander anymore. It has chosen you."
Rowan felt the words land. He didn't know where they would sleep next week. He didn't know how to protect anyone but the twelve feet of ground under his boots. But he knew—clear as clean water—that running from place to place without a plan would only keep putting them behind.
Brennar poked the fire, making sparks run for a breath and die. "So we hunt," he said. "We learn the marks. We break the wheels. We take back who we can."
"And bury who we can't," Ari said softly.
Nyx's eyes were unreadable. "And if the caravans are guarded by more of those green-blooded things?"
"Then we learn how to kill smoke," Brennar said. He tried for a grin. It didn't quite get there.
Lyra poured Rowan a cup of water and watched him drink. "You can't carry all of it," she said, when he lowered it. "Not alone."
"I won't be alone," he said, and looked at Brennar because the thought had begun with him and because saying it out loud made the weight feel different. "Not anymore."
Brennar grunted again, but this time there was warmth under it. "Good," he said. "Because I am tired of dragging you by your scruff."
They made the fire small and banked it under ash. The wolf slipped into the trees and did not leave tracks where it went. Ashwyn stood the first watch and did not seem to breathe at all. When Rowan lay down, the earth felt cool and real under his back. The ache in his chest dulled. The picture of the boy drifted to the edge of his thoughts and stayed there, still sharp, less blinding.
He slept, and the river kept time.
Before dawn, mist lay low and silver along the water. Rowan woke to the soft weight of a blanket pulled higher over his shoulder. He didn't need to look to know whose hand had done it. He listened to Brennar's slow steps, to Ari stringing her bow with a quiet hum, to Nyx walking the perimeter without a leaf complaining, to Lyra counting their breaths like beads on a cord, to Ashwyn speaking to the trees in a voice that was more listening than words.
When the first bird called, Ashwyn turned to them. "South and east," he said. "The old timber road."
Rowan tightened the strap of his waterskin. He stood and lifted the harpoon. It felt heavy, but not like it had yesterday. He looked once at the three stones by the river. He looked once at Brennar, who nodded as if they had said a longer thing.
They moved out in a line that was not a line and felt like one anyway. The forest did not open so much as stop standing in their way. The day smelled green and clean. Far off, something with wings cried twice and then was quiet.
They were not wandering anymore. The path had chosen them. Now they had to choose it back.