The new route was discovered quickly.
Too quickly to feel reassuring.
It wasn't in the same area, nor operated by the same people, yet the logic was almost identical—detached from main roads, deliberately inconspicuous, threaded through civilian paths, hidden in places no one officially managed.
If the first route had been a probe, this one was replication.
Nathan Carter did not request additional authority.
He knew that pushing upward for formal orders would only slow the rhythm.
And this time, slowness would be a liability.
He called Elias Moore and Thomas Reed over and stood with them before the map for a long while.
"What are they really looking for?" Thomas asked first.
"Not roads," Nathan replied. "Confidence."
Elias looked up. "Confidence?"
"Yes," Nathan said. "They're testing when we notice, when we intervene, and when we decide something isn't worth the effort."
All it would take was one success for the British to confirm the method worked.
After that, the routes would multiply—smaller, more scattered, harder to trace.
By then, blocking them would cost several times more.
"So what do we do?" Thomas asked.
Nathan didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the marked points on the map and realized something uncomfortable—
They had been defending.
Defending routes.Defending nodes.Defending judgments.
Meanwhile, the enemy was pressing the tempo.
"We change the approach," he said.
Over the next three days, the unit shifted direction entirely.
They stopped watching suspected routes.
Instead, they watched three kinds of people:
Those who repaired roads.Those who drove wagons.Those who appeared at night and vanished by day.
These were the carriers of the method.
Near a small village, they found their opening.
Not by arresting anyone.
But by creating choice.
Nathan had word quietly spread that a main road would be temporarily opened within two days, with looser supply inspections.
The rumor wasn't secret.
Just attractive enough.
At the same time, another group subtly increased the appearance of risk along the side paths—
No actual blockades.Just enough friction to make things feel troublesome.
The result came quickly.
Two days later, small transports that had been using back routes began returning to the main road.
Not all of them.
But enough.
Nathan did not stop them.
He let them pass.
He even slowed inspections deliberately.
To many, this looked irrational.
"You're letting them through," Thomas said under his breath.
"I'm offering them a more expensive option," Nathan replied.
Three days later, the effect became visible.
Traffic on side routes declined.The main road grew congested.
The British were forced to recalculate—efficiency versus security.
And once recalculation began, the method lost its stability.
This time, Nathan wrote his report more plainly.
Not route identified.
But:
Back-route supply relies on low attention. Once attention is redirected, operational costs escalate rapidly.
This was a dismantling of the method.
Not a description of a single road.
The response was slow.
But in a private exchange, Greene said only one thing:
"What you're doing now no longer looks like reconnaissance."
Nathan didn't disagree.
"This is about changing habits," he said.
Greene was silent for a moment.
"Habits are harder to fight than armies," he said.
The sustained operations exhausted the unit.
They hadn't had full rest in days.
Nathan finally ordered a half-day rotation.
Not because the situation was safe.
But because judgment itself was being worn down.
That evening, the camp was unusually quiet.
Nathan didn't look at the map.
He walked out beyond the camp, along a path that led nowhere in particular.
Not far ahead, he saw Abigail Warren.
She was gathering drying cloth, her movements unhurried.
She paused when she saw him.
"Do you have time now?" she asked.
Not a test this time.
A confirmation.
Nathan nodded.
"Half an hour," he said.
She handed the cloth to someone else and walked with him along the path.
No destination.
No deliberate topic.
Just side by side.
The wind moved through the tall grass. Somewhere far off, a horse stamped.
"I heard," Abigail said after a while, "that some roads have become harder to use lately."
Nathan didn't deny it.
"Is that your doing?" she asked.
"In part," he said.
She considered that.
"That will save a lot of lives," she said.
It wasn't praise.
It sounded more like a conclusion.
They stopped on a small rise as dusk settled in.
The lights of the camp flickered on, one by one.
"If this war ends," Abigail asked suddenly, "what would you want to do?"
It wasn't a common question in this time.
Nathan was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know," he said. "But I know I can't stop now."
She nodded.
"Then when you can stop," she said, "tell me."
No promises.
No excess emotion.
Just time placed somewhere ahead.
They walked back together.
Before parting, Abigail said, "Tomorrow I'll be very busy."
Nathan nodded.
"So will I."
It was the truth.
And the only answer that fit.
Night settled in.
Nathan returned to his tent and unfolded the map again.
The problem of side routes had been contained—for now.
But the method remained.
The enemy would return.
Only in another form.
And Nathan understood clearly—
What lay ahead was no longer just tactical.
It was a long contest of patience, cost, and judgment.
War was drawing him deeper.