They continued down the road.
Calling it a road was generous. Stone worn smooth by time and passage, half-swallowed by soil and creeping moss. It guided them not by promise, but by inevitability. Roads like this always led somewhere. Usually somewhere that still had people.
That alone made it dangerous.
Agnes walked closest to Sawyer now. Close enough that her buckler brushed against his still-bloodied arm from time to time. She did not realize. She did not apologize.
Up close, he looked younger than she had first assumed. Tall and solidly built, his frame carried the kind of strength that came from use rather than training halls. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, dark and blackened by years of rain, clinging to a body that moved with quiet certainty. Pale hair—almost white—fell loose around his face, damp and uncombed.
His features were sharp but not harsh. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, not from age, but from strain and focus, giving his face a worn, lived-in quality despite his youth. He might have been handsome, in a subdued way—unpolished, weathered, and unconcerned with it. His skin was unnaturally pale, drained of warmth rather than health, setting him apart without making him seem sickly.
"So," Agnes said at last, breaking the silence with practiced casualness, "you didn't hesitate back there."
Sawyer kept his eyes forward.
"No."
The warrior beside her—broad-shouldered, scarred, carrying a blade that had seen real use—snorted.
"Not even when Aluna flared her Song," he added. "In front of a Defiant Blessing. Most men either bow or bolt."
Sawyer shrugged.
"Nothing happened in the end."
Agnes frowned.
"And if something had?"
Sawyer glanced at her then. Just once.
"Then I would've moved."
The warrior laughed, sharp and incredulous.
"Confident," he said.
"Experienced," Sawyer corrected.
The warrior rolled his shoulder, armor plates clinking softly.
"Hells," he muttered. "And here I thought I was reckless."
Agnes smirked sideways at him.
"Bran," she said, "you once charged a nest without checking if it was empty."
"It was empty," he shot back.
"Because Faust collapsed it first."
Ahead of them, the mage exhaled slowly, tension draining from his posture now that weapons were no longer half-raised. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, fingers still faintly trembling as residual magic bled away.
"I'd appreciate it," he said dryly, "if my name wasn't invoked every time someone remembers how close we came to dying."
Bran chuckled.
"Relax, Faust. You did good."
Faust glanced back at Sawyer again—as if confirming, once more, that the man was still real. Still walking.
"I'm just glad," he muttered, "that we didn't end up killing each other."
Agnes arched a brow.
"Speak for yourself."
Aluna heard all of it.
And heard more.
Priestess, a voice whispered into her mind—controlled, quiet, edged sharp enough to cut. That man is dangerous.
Kristaphs.
She did not react outwardly. Did not slow. Did not let her Song stir.
I am aware, she replied silently.
A pause. She could feel his attention sharpen.
His gaze has been analyzing everything, Kristaphs continued. Spacing. Terrain. Us. He watches like he's counting how many breaths it would take to end us.
Aluna's fingers tightened around her staff.
I see it.
Another pause—longer this time.
Then why did you let him walk with us?
Her answer came without hesitation.
Because I am scared.
She felt his surprise—not loud, but genuine.
Of him? Kristaphs asked.
Of what follows him. Of what he doesn't have.
The rogue glanced, raising a brow. They walked in silence for several heartbeats after that.
Do you think we'll lose? he finally asked.
Aluna's steps did not falter.
I don't think all of us will survive.
The connection severed cleanly.
Kristaphs melted back into the periphery of the group, unseen but present, eyes never leaving Sawyer's blind spots. His guard remained up. It always would be now.
Agnes fell back half a step, letting Sawyer take watch.
It wasn't a gesture of trust. Not yet, but close enough. More of a test.
"If you see movement, call it." she said.
Sawyer nodded once.
Bran noticed. His jaw tightened, but didn't argue. "If he freezes, I'll take over." he muttered. More to himself than anyone else.
"He won't," Faust replied without thinking.
Bran looked at him sharply. Silently judging his own ally.
"You sure?"
Faust hesitated. "No. But I don't think fear works on him the way it does to us."
The image of the dead Concierge flashed for a moment in his mind. Realization hit Bran after a few moments of thought.
Gazes filled with different intentions all converged onto a tired back.
Sawyer felt it.
Not the words. Not the magic.
The weight of attention.
He did not react.
The settlement came into view an hour later—wooden palisades slumped with age, smoke rising thinly into a sky that looked too wide, too empty. A place clinging to life more out of habit than hope.
Agnes rolled her shoulders.
"Home enough," she said.
Bran rested a hand on his sword.
"Too quiet," he muttered.
Faust nodded, already uneasy.
"Something's wrong."
Sawyer watched the gates.
Something there was wrong.
He did not say so.
Not yet.
They all looked again at Sawyer.
Not ready to trust.
Just accepting that this man is skilled. Very skilled.