The third day brought trouble.
They'd been walking for hours, following the line of a dried riverbed, when Roen heard it: the
sound of hoofbeats on hard earth.
"Hide," he breathed, grabbing Mirelle's arm.
They scrambled up a rocky slope, pressing themselves against the stones. Below, a group of
riders appeared on the trail they'd been following. Five men on horseback, armed and
armored, their faces hidden beneath hoods.
Bandits? Or something worse?
The riders stopped at the dried riverbed, scanning the terrain. One of them dismounted and
examined the ground.
"Tracks," he called to the others. "Two people. Recent."
Roen's heart sank. Their footprints, clear in the soft earth.
"North," another rider said. "They're heading for the mountains."
"Could be pilgrims."
"Could be prey."
The riders laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. They mounted up and continued north, following
the trail.
"We need to move," Roen whispered. "They'll be back."
"Roen, we can't outrun horses."
"No. But we can outthink them." He began crawling backward, away from the slope. "We
leave the trail. Head cross-country."
"Through the Moors? Without a path?"
"Better than becoming sport for bandits."
They moved, staying low, putting distance between themselves and the riders' path. The
going was brutal—rocky terrain, thick brush, the constant danger of twisting an ankle or
worse. But slowly, the sound of hoofbeats faded behind them.
By nightfall, they'd lost the riders.
They'd also lost themselves.
"Where are we?" Mirelle asked, looking around at the unfamiliar landscape.
Roen checked the stars, trying to orient himself. The Pale Mountains were still visible on the
horizon, but they seemed no closer than they had that morning.
"We're still heading north. That's what matters."
"And the riders?"
"They'll pick up our trail eventually. But we bought ourselves time." He found a sheltered spot
beneath an overhang of rock. "We rest here. Move again at first light."
They ate the last of the bread from Thornwick, saving the dried meat for later. The night was
cold, colder than the previous nights, and they huddled together beneath the wool blankets.
"Roen," Mirelle said quietly. "What happens after we deliver the package?"
He considered the question. He'd been trying not to think about it—focusing on the
immediate problem, the next step, the next mile. But she was right to ask.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Sable said she'd find me. Pay the rest of what she owes. After
that..." He shrugged. "We figure it out."
"Figure it out." She laughed softly. "That's your answer for everything."
"It's worked so far."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I've never been outside Ashford before. Never
been more than a day's walk from the city walls." She pulled her blanket tighter. "It's bigger
than I thought. The world."
"It's bigger than anyone thinks," Roen said. "That's what makes it interesting."
"Is that what you want? Interesting?"
He thought about it. What did he want? He'd spent his whole life surviving, scraping by,
never thinking past the next meal or the next debt. The future had been a blur, a fog he
couldn't see through.
Now, for the first time, he had a destination. A purpose. Even if he didn't understand it.
"I want to matter," he said finally. "I want to be more than just another thread-blind street rat
who lived and died without anyone noticing."
Mirelle was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "You matter to me."
He looked at her—this girl who'd followed him for two years, who'd risked everything to help
him break into an Imperial garrison, who was currently sleeping on cold stone beside him in
the middle of nowhere.
"Yeah," he said. "You matter too."
They slept, and in the morning, they walked.