The caravan carried the moment as a memory ingrained in the earth.
Not heavy enough to stop them. Not sharp enough to draw blood. Just present—there in every step that followed, in every half-glance that failed to look like one, in every laugh that arrived a heartbeat late.
The Song noticed.
It spread along the moving line the way it always did when groups traveled—touching shoulders and wheels, measuring pace, easing the small frictions that would otherwise become arguments. It brushed outward in calming waves, coaxing the civilians back into the simple truth that the road was still the road and the day was still kind.
But the resonance did not forget.
It circled Sawyer more carefully now, as if reassessing the shape of him. Trying to fill a space that refused.
Faust walked close enough that his sleeve occasionally brushed Sawyer's coat, as if proximity might turn the impossible into something explainable. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Then abandoned subtlety altogether.
"So," he said. "Is that… normal for you?"
Bran made a sound halfway between a choke and a laugh.
"Don't answer that like it's normal for anyone."
"It was reflex," Sawyer said.
Faust squinted.
"Reflex doesn't turn three paces into one."
"It wasn't three," Bran muttered, scowling at the road as if it had betrayed him. "It was more."
Agnes walked just ahead of them, her pace unchanged. Straight back. Steady stride. Eyes forward—on the wagons, the tree line, the civilians.
Only her attention kept folding back.
"Let it rest," she said, without turning.
Faust lifted his hands.
"I am resting it. I'm resting it aggressively."
He blew out a breath.
"I'm just saying—Sawyer, you moved like Vice-Guildmaster Erika."
A few nearby civilians glanced over.
Sawyer felt it then—the Song easing their curiosity, sanding the edge off before it could bite.
It didn't erase it.
"Like her?" Sawyer asked.
Faust's hands dropped. His expression didn't lighten.
"Yeah. When she commits to a dash."
A pause.
"The Song goes wild around her legs. Always has."
Sawyer said nothing.
Agnes spoke again, louder now. Excited.
"That's what's crazy," she said. "There was no spill. No drag. His movement was smooth and pristine."
Kristaphs drew breath.
Bran cut in.
"So when you said let it rest," he said, glancing between them, "that was more of a suggestion, yeah?"
No one answered.
Accusatory glances shot throughout the group.
Aluna drifted from the left side of the line, where she'd been speaking quietly with two civilians about the best way to keep blisters from forming. She stepped into their pace as if she'd always belonged there.
Her eyes were bright with polite concern.
"The child's mother is still thanking the air," she said. "You may have saved yourself from the caravan's scrutiny by saving her daughter."
Aluna's gaze flicked over Sawyer's coat, the way it fell and moved with him.
"Good job Mr Hero," she said lightly.
A soft giggle escaped from her mouth as she teased the anomaly.
Sawyer's eyes dipped for a moment to the road. Bran's narrowed at the two.
The Song was quieter again, but it still kept touching him, like a hand checking for heat.
Agnes slowed half a pace, letting the group compress.
"Eyes forward," she said. "We're coming into a bend."
The road ahead curved between two low rises, where trees thickened and the underbrush crowded close enough to brush wagon wheels. The sun had begun to lower. Light filtered sideways through branches and struck the road in broken bars.
It was still kind light.
But it no longer felt forgiving.
The Song's behavior changed at the same time.
It did not push them into a faster stride. It did not draw them together for comfort.
It tested.
Small nudges along the caravan line, as if it were checking how quickly bodies could shift. How readily wheels could angle inward. How easily voices could drop.
Sawyer felt the difference like pressure in his teeth.
Ahead, the resonance was… messy.
Not loud. Not dense.
Just careless.
Footprints layered over one another in places the road did not encourage stopping. The subtle indentations of weight set in the dirt near the edge, where travelers didn't usually linger. A scuff mark against a rock that suggested someone had braced there—waiting.
Faust must have felt the same, because his chatter died mid-breath.
Bran's hand drifted toward the hilt at his side. Not drawing. Just remembering it existed.
Agnes's voice dropped.
"Aluna. Left side."
Aluna moved without hesitation, easing away from the center line as if she were merely checking on a wagon wheel. The Song helped her, smoothing her path so she did not draw attention from the civilians.
Kristaphs's jaw tightened.
"Five."
The bend opened.
And the road ahead belonged to someone else.
A man stepped out from behind a tree as if he had been invited.
He was not ragged. Not starving. Not desperate.
His cloak was patched, but with care. His boots were worn, but oiled. His hair was tied back in a way that suggested habit rather than vanity. A short sword hung at his hip. Not flashy, not ceremonial. Practical.
He smiled like someone offering directions.
"Evening," he called. "You've made good time."
Two more figures shifted into view on the right. One leaned against a trunk with a crossbow held loosely, not raised yet. Another stood half behind the first man, eyes scanning the wagons.
And then the trees on the left gave up their own shapes—another pair stepping out from the underbrush, spreading like a net being drawn open.
Bandits.
Sawyer felt the caravan behind him tighten instinctively.
The Song surged forward, trying to preserve order, trying to keep the civilians from scattering into panic. It pressed a calm into their shoulders, encouraged breath, encouraged them to stay close to the wagons, to remain within the rhythm of the group.
Agnes stepped forward before fear could find a voice.
Her hand did not go to her weapon.
Her posture did not change.
But the air around her shifted anyway, the way it did when someone with authority simply decided a situation belonged to them.
"We're under charter," she said evenly. "Move aside."
The man's smile widened.
"Charter," he echoed, as if tasting the word. "Does it feed you? Does it keep rain off your bedroll?"
"It keeps you alive if you're smart," Bran muttered, too low for the civilians, and not quite low enough for Sawyer to be sure the bandits didn't hear.
The bandit leader lifted a hand in a placating gesture.
"No need for threats. We're reasonable folk. Road's been dangerous lately. People say there are… creatures."
His eyes flicked briefly—just briefly—toward the caravan. Toward the civilians. Toward the wagons. Counting.
"We offer protection. In exchange for a fair contribution."
Faust's laugh came out thin.
"Protection from you?"
The crossbowman on the right raised his weapon a fraction. Not aiming. Just reminding.
The Song tightened around that motion, pulling the caravan's line inward, guiding bodies away from the potential line of fire without making it obvious.
Sawyer watched the leader's eyes.
Not the smile.
The eyes didn't match it.
They were too calm.
Too practiced.
These weren't hungry men making a bad choice.
These were men who did this often enough to treat it like work.
Agnes spoke again.
"We don't carry coin for tolls. We carry supplies for a settlement."
"Supplies are coin," the leader said pleasantly.
Kristaphs stepped forward a half pace, his voice cool.
"You should walk away."
The leader's smile faltered, just slightly, as if he'd been insulted by the assumption that he could be ordered.
"Friend," he said, still polite, "you don't look like you understand numbers. We do. Five of us. And multiple targets you can't afford to lose."
His gaze swept. This time eyeing the civilians.
Then landed—finally—on Sawyer.
For a heartbeat, the leader's expression shifted.
Not fear.
Interest.
Because Sawyer did not look tired.
"Now," the leader said, voice still mild, "no one gets hurt. You hand over a crate or two, maybe something nice for the road, and you all keep walking. We forget we saw you."
The Song pressed against Sawyer like a hand against a door that wanted to open.
Sawyer did not move.
Not yet.
Agnes didn't look back at him. She didn't need to. Her voice carried the shape of a decision.
"No."
The word hit the road like a stone dropped into still water.
The leader sighed, as if disappointed.
And then the bandit behind him shifted his stance.
Not toward Agnes.
Toward the nearest wagon.
Toward the civilians.
That was the mistake.
An image flashed within his mind. A girl pointing at a butterfly. Sawyer moved.
It was not the long, impossible dash from earlier.
This was smaller. Cleaner. More frightening in its normality.
One step. Two.
The Song tried to catch up.
By the time it adjusted, Sawyer's hand had already closed around the bandit's wrist. The man's knife was halfway out. Sawyer twisted—just enough—and the blade fell into the dirt with a dull thunk.
The bandit made a sound that wasn't a scream yet.
Sawyer let go.
The man stumbled backward, clutching his hand as if it had been burned.
The crossbowman's weapon snapped upward.
Agnes moved at the same time, shield lifting.
The bolt fired.
It struck the shield with a sharp crack and skittered off into the road.
Faust cursed.
Bran drew his weapon.
Kristaphs's aura flared—subtle, like heat distortion in the air—enough to make the bandits hesitate as if their bodies had suddenly remembered pain.
Aluna's voice rose, not in panic, but in command.
"Civilians—down! Behind the wagons!"
The Song seized on her words and amplified their effect. The civilians moved as one, not perfectly, but with enough coherence that the scramble did not become a stampede.
The leader's smile was gone now.
His sword came out.
"Fine," he said, the mildness stripped away. "Take them."
They rushed.
Not all at once.
Two feinted right. One charged left. The leader came straight at Bran, trusting his speed and his supposed need to protect.
Bran met him like a wall.
His shield caught his first strike with a sound like splitting wood. He returned with a shove that sent him back two paces, boots scraping.
Kristaphs intercepted the bandit on the left, steel ringing as blades met. His movements were rough but committed, and the Song wrapped around him to smooth the worst of his openings, guiding his feet to the right place at the right time.
Faust hesitated a half second too long—then committed, stepping in with a short blade of his own, aiming low where armor didn't exist.
Agnes moved like she disliked wasting effort. One clean motion, an arrow flies. The bandit stumbled as his shoulder caught the loosed arrow.
Sawyer chose the one who had aimed for the wagon.
The bandit lunged again, desperate now, eyes wide with the sudden realization that intimidation had failed.
Sawyer sidestepped.
He did not swing his sword.
He didn't need to.
His elbow struck the man's ribs. His knee cut into the back of the bandit's leg. The man collapsed, breath leaving him in a wet rush.
Sawyer turned before the body hit the ground.
The crossbowman was already reloading.
Too slow.
Sawyer crossed the space between them in three steps, each placed where the Song could hide his approach in the chaos of movement. His hand caught the crossbow's stock, wrenched it upward, and the weapon discharged into the canopy.
Leaves burst. Birds scattered.
The crossbowman's eyes went round.
Sawyer hit him once, open-handed, across the side of the head.
The man folded.
The fight was ending before it had properly begun.
The leader saw it.
He retreated, breathing harder now, eyes darting between his men and the caravan with the calculating panic of someone watching his advantage evaporate.
"Fall back!" he snapped.
One of the bandits tried to obey.
Bran's blade clipped his arm, not deep, but enough to leave blood. The man screamed and ran anyway.
The leader glared at Agnes, rage and disbelief mixing on his face.
"This isn't worth dying for," he spat.
Bran lifted his shield again.
"Then don't."
He hesitated.
For a heartbeat, Sawyer thought he might actually surrender.
Instead, the leader turned and sprinted toward the trees.
The Song tried to follow him.
It couldn't.
Not because the resonance was weak, but because the man moved with the same practiced disorder they'd felt ahead of the bend. He didn't run like a traveler.
He ran like someone who knew exactly where the ground would not betray him.
Sawyer took one step to pursue.
Agnes's voice cut through.
"No."
The command was quiet, but absolute.
Sawyer stopped. Only his movement, not his action. He motioned to string his bow. But Agnes grabbed his arm,
"No need to waste arrows."
The surviving bandits vanished into the trees.
The sudden quiet felt unreal.
The Song surged outward immediately, pressing down the sharp edges of fear, smoothing breathing, encouraging bodies to rise carefully instead of lurching. It guided the civilians to check for injuries, to hold one another, to speak softly instead of wailing.
Faust stood with his blade still raised, chest heaving.
"That was—"
He swallowed.
"That was close"
Bran wiped his sword on the grass with a shaking hand.
"They weren't worth anything."
Kristaphs watched their back slowly shrink on the tree line with narrowed eyes.
"They are quite fast."
Aluna crouched beside a civilian woman whose hands wouldn't stop trembling and spoke in a low, steady voice until the woman's breath slowed. Then she stood and looked at Agnes.
"If they're willing to strike a guarded caravan in daylight, they've been getting away with it."
Agnes nodded once. Her gaze traveled the road ahead as if she could see through bends and trees by force of will.
"We make camp early," she said. "Off the road. No fires visible. Rotating watch."
A murmur rippled through the civilians—fear dressed as practicality.
Sawyer looked down at the bandit he'd dropped first. The man was sitting up now, clutching his wrist, eyes flicking from Sawyer's face to his coat to his hands like he was trying to decide what kind of monster had hit him.
Sawyer crouched.
The man flinched.
Sawyer didn't threaten him. He didn't smile.
He simply asked,
"How many?"
The bandit swallowed.
"Just… us."
Sawyer's eyes didn't change.
"Lie better."
The man's gaze darted toward the trees, then back.
"I don't know—others. Not here. Down the road."
Sawyer's voice stayed flat.
"Who leads you."
The man's lips trembled.
"You saw him."
"Name."
The bandit hesitated.
Sawyer leaned closer just enough that the man could see his eyes clearly.
Not anger.
Attention.
The bandit's resolve crumpled.
"Derrik," he whispered. "They call him Derrik."
Sawyer stood.
Agnes had been watching.
"Tie him up," she said. Not cruel. Just certain bubbliness. "We'll turn him over when we reach Ridgeholt."
Faust looked at Sawyer like he wanted to ask something again and didn't trust his own words. Finally, he settled for,
"You wanted to kill them."
Sawyer's gaze stayed on the treeline.
"They wanted me to."
Bran's throat bobbed.
"Right on that."
Sawyer didn't answer immediately.
The Song pressed at the edges of that thought, not liking it, trying to smooth it into something less sharp.
Sawyer let it.
But he kept the point anyway.
They made camp before sunset.
Not the neat, comfortable kind of stop the caravan preferred, with wagons aligned and fires lit and supper smells drifting into the trees.
This camp was defensive.
Wagons drawn in tighter. Bedrolls placed where they could be reached quickly. Supplies kept close. Children tucked into the deepest center with adults wrapped around them like shields.
The Song adjusted, building structure out of anxiety.
It moved through the camp like invisible hands tightening knots, aligning the circle, coaxing people into positions that made sense even if they didn't understand why. It made the perimeter feel thicker. The center feel safer.
Sawyer took first watch without being asked.
Agnes didn't argue.
Faust didn't joke.
Bran tried to, once, and the sound died before it became laughter.
Night came in slow, inevitable layers.
The last light drained from the leaves.
The road vanished.
And the world beyond the camp became a listening thing.
Sawyer stood at the edge of the wagons, gaze fixed on the dark line of trees. His breath was steady. His hands were still.
The Song was with him.
Not guiding.
Listening.
And somewhere out there—beyond the bend, beyond the reach of the caravan's small circle of order—men like Derrik moved through the dark with loose hands and practiced disorder.
Sawyer did not regret what he had done. He only regrets what he couldn't do.
What lingered was the same realization as earlier, sharpened by bloodless violence instead of heroism:
In a world guided by the Song, any disruption echoed.
And today finally created more than one. He was not alone in this anymore.