The next day began with wet boots and stubborn silence.
Corren led the way through a winding deer trail, the forest rising around them like watchful walls. Merrian kept pace just behind him, occasionally pulling Maxwell along when he lagged to stare at bugs or throw sticks into puddles.
"You don't talk much, do you?" Merrian said finally.
"I talk enough," Corren replied.
"Hmm. That's what suspicious people say."
"Or careful ones."
"You're both," she said, matter-of-fact.
Corren allowed himself a breath of something close to amusement. Merrian reminded him of a cat trying to understand fire—curious, clever, and ready to pounce if it ever learned how to use it.
Maxwell tugged at his sister's cloak. "Can we have breakfast now?"
"We already had bread," Merrian said.
"But that was before I was hungry again."
Corren pulled a wrapped piece of dried meat from his pack and handed it over without a word. Maxwell beamed.
"You're nicer than you look," Merrian said.
"You say that like you expected fangs."
"I still haven't ruled them out."
They camped by a shallow stream that night. Corren built the fire. Maxwell stacked pinecones in circles around it. Merrian tried to guess where they were on the map.
"I think Velcrith is two days east if we cut across the ridge," she said.
"You can read maps?" Corren asked.
"My mother made sure we learned. She said getting lost is how nobles end up dead or married."
Corren grunted. "Good advice."
That name—mother—sat sharp in his ear. He didn't ask. Didn't have to.
They were clean, healthy, well-educated. And heading for Velcrith. Grandchildren of the Duke. That left only one possibility.
Children of Baroness Stilleon.
The same Baroness whose seal stamped his wanted poster.
He watched them from across the fire. Merrian was showing Maxwell how to boil moss in a tin cup. They laughed. Loud and careless.
Corren felt it like a tug.
He didn't show it.
He just made a plan.
Get them to the city. Quietly. Drop them off. Disappear.
"You have a Gift, don't you?" Merrian asked later, once Maxwell had curled up to sleep beside the fire.
Corren didn't look at her. "Why would you ask that?"
"You fight like someone who doesn't get tired. And you knew the mage was coming before she attacked."
"I've trained."
She tilted her head. "So have our guards. They still died."
Corren said nothing.
"Maxwell thinks you're cursed," she added.
"He's probably right."
Merrian shifted closer to the fire, letting silence settle. "Even if you are, you saved us. So... thank you."
He nodded once.
The stars above flickered behind tree limbs. The fire crackled low.
Corren didn't sleep.
He watched. First the dark. Then the trees. Then the slow rise of mist curling from the stream's edge.
Merrian and Maxwell shifted in their blankets, one murmuring nonsense, the other breathing slow and deep. Corren moved without sound, adding wood to the fire. He sharpened his blade. Recounted his coin. Checked the edge of Virellen, which vibrated faintly when his fingers touched the hilt, like it was waiting for something.
He wondered what it meant to protect people who might destroy you later.
He wondered if that made him stupid.
Morning crept in like smoke—low and slow. The birds began before the sun showed itself. Dew clung to everything.
Maxwell stirred first, stretching like a cat. Merrian woke with her dagger still clutched tight beneath her blanket.
Corren sat cross-legged near the fire, staring at the ashes.
"Did you sleep?" Merrian asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you did."
She blinked, confused. Then nodded once, solemn.
Breakfast was quiet, made from half-rations and hot water steeped with pine needles. Maxwell wrinkled his nose but drank it anyway.
Corren packed in silence while the children squabbled over who had last seen their map.
He didn't speak until they were walking.
"We'll reach the ridge by nightfall. We stay there until moonrise. Then we cut east."
"You already had the route planned," Merrian said.
"I've had it since the first night."
She stared at him. Then looked away.
Maxwell tripped on a root and laughed.
Corren kept walking, the edge of fatigue curling at his temples. But it was a quiet sort of tired.
The kind that came from watching something worth guarding.