The cloth fell back into place like it wanted to hide the truth again.
I didn't let it.
My fingers stayed hooked under the edge—numb, stubborn—holding it open while my eyes tried to understand what was slumped inside the cart.
Garrand Vox Myrmidon.
His armor looked like it had been chewed by something patient.
His breathing was wrong—wet and ragged, like each inhale scraped the inside of him raw.
And the space where his right arm should have been—
My brain refused to finish the thought.
Not yet.
Not fully.
Instead, it latched onto the next name it understood.
Myrina.
My mouth shaped it without sound.
My fingers went slack.
The cloth dropped.
And I moved.
Not fast. Fast meant panic, and panic meant my legs would betray me. They had a habit of doing that whenever the world got too sharp.
So I moved like a tool.
Like a broom.
Like a boy who'd learned that walking was sometimes the only way to keep from drowning.
I went to the second cart.
It smelled like blood and wet cloth and sour breath.
A man inside groaned low. A healer's hands—only hands, no face—pressed down on a bandage with practiced pressure. Fingers that didn't shake. Fingers that didn't have time.
I searched the shapes.
Hair. Armor. Gloves.
A familiar stance. A familiar scuffed boot. The way Myrina stood like she was daring the world to try again.
Nothing.
I went to the third cart.
Then the fourth.
More wounded. More bandages. More faces I didn't know. More hands that trembled as they tried to hold cups, hold straps, hold themselves together.
My name floated around me like people were trying to catch me before I fell.
"Trey—"
"Trey, wait—"
I didn't.
I checked under cloth covers, over benches, between stacked packs, like my sister might be folded into a corner like a forgotten sack of rope.
The fifth cart—
I lifted the cloth and saw rings.
Gold.
Polished.
A hand that was usually busy pointing at rope and fees and the whole world like it was a ledger that needed correcting.
Now it just rested on a knee.
Still.
Marcen Halwick.
Finn's father.
Alive.
And somehow not.
His coat was torn at the shoulder. One sleeve was stiff with dark streaks. His hair was out of place—which looked wrong on him in a way that made my chest ache.
His eyes stared forward but didn't land on anything.
Like the world had moved on and he'd stayed behind.
My throat tried to lock.
"Mr… Halwick," I said.
It came out thin.
Marcen didn't blink.
I swallowed and tried again, louder, as if volume could pull him back.
"Marcen."
His fingers twitched—barely.
A fracture in a statue.
A healer's voice from inside the cart murmured, tired as old paper, "Don't."
Not a warning.
Not a threat.
Just… exhausted.
I lowered the cloth.
My legs carried me to the next cart.
And the next.
And then there weren't any more.
The road had given me all it was going to give.
My sister wasn't on it.
My heartbeat didn't understand, so it kept beating like it could hammer the answer into existence if it hit hard enough.
The guild doors stood open.
The stairs inside were crowded with boots going up.
Avalonia steel. Bandaged arms. Faces set tight.
They had already taken the wounded inside.
They had already taken the important people upstairs.
My body turned toward the entrance like it knew where answers were kept.
I walked.
I barely felt the crowd brush me. Barely heard the whispers that rose and died like the hall was afraid to make noise too close to grief.
A hand caught my shoulder at the threshold.
Not a grab.
A stop.
Warm.
Steady.
Nerissa.
"Trey," she said.
I didn't look at her face.
My eyes stayed on the stairs.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
"Not upstairs," she said.
I tried to step forward anyway.
Nerissa didn't move.
She didn't have to.
Her hand was a wall.
"That's the Guild Master's quarters," she added, voice low. "And the commander's meeting room."
Deciding.
Counting.
Choosing the right words so people don't riot.
She didn't say any of it.
She didn't need to.
I stared at the steps until the wood grain blurred.
My mouth opened.
No sound came.
Nerissa's hand stayed on my shoulder.
"Wait," she said again.
I waited.
Not because I agreed.
Because my legs finally remembered they were legs.
I stood at the base of the stairs like a statue someone forgot to finish.
Behind me, the guild hall was quieter than I'd ever heard it.
Not silent.
Held.
Like the whole building was listening for a scream.
A heavy presence stepped up behind my shoulder.
Barrek's voice rumbled—soft, for him.
"Pup."
The word landed like a familiar shove.
I didn't turn.
Barrek moved closer anyway. Scarred knuckles flexed like he didn't know what to do with his hands when they weren't holding a drink.
"She'll be fine," he said.
It didn't sound like certainty.
It sounded like an order he was trying to give the universe.
Another veteran hovered at my other side—the braided woman.
Ruth.
"She owes me a favor," Ruth muttered, like debt was stronger than death.
Joren drifted behind them, usually all jokes and crooked grins.
Not today.
"Myrina Austere doesn't die," he said.
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Barrek snorted. "Yeah. She's too stubborn. Death would get bored and leave."
Ruth added, "Death tries to take her, she'll make it do errands."
Joren's mouth twitched. "She'd charge it fifty iron."
Their words weren't jokes.
Not really.
They were hands offering a rope.
I didn't grab it.
I stared at the stairs.
Time stretched thin.
Boots upstairs moved. A door opened, closed. Voices murmured. Someone coughed.
My eyes didn't blink.
Finally—
Boots came down.
Avalonia steel.
Six men.
Bandages. Bruises. Faces older than they should've been.
The first soldier held his helmet under one arm. His other hand rested near his belt out of habit.
He saw me at the bottom step and tried to step around.
I stepped forward instead.
Not fast.
Not angry.
Just… in the way.
My feet planted.
My heart didn't feel like a heart.
It felt like stone.
The soldier stopped. His brows pulled together.
"Who is this kid?" he muttered.
Barrek moved beside me instantly.
The floor felt like it shook just from him standing there.
"Easy," Barrek said, gruff. "That's Myrina's pup."
Ruth leaned in a fraction. "Her brother."
Joren lifted both hands, palms out, like calming a wild animal. "He's not here to start trouble. He's… waiting."
The soldier's gaze flicked over me again.
For the first time since the carts arrived, I lifted my eyes.
Not to his hands.
To his face.
To his eyes.
He looked startled—like he expected a child to look away.
I didn't.
My voice came out steady in a way that didn't feel like mine.
"Please tell me my sister is safe."
The words sat between us.
Heavy.
Simple.
The soldier's mouth opened.
Then closed.
Something changed in his expression.
Not irritation.
Not cruelty.
Just… serious.
And underneath it—
regret.
He inhaled.
"I don't know who your sister is," he said, straight as a drawn blade. "But if you can't find her on the carts…"
My stomach sank.
He continued, and the air in my lungs turned to ice.
"…then there's no next batch of carts. This is the first batch."
My hands went numb.
His voice didn't soften.
"And unfortunately…"
He paused—like the words weighed something even on him.
"…the last."