Journeys never truly restarted in the morning.
They simply continued, as if the night had been an interruption rather than a pause.
Sawyer walked at the caravan's edge, boots finding their place in the rutted road without thought. Wheels creaked back into rhythm. Harness leather murmured. The long column stretched, compressed, and settled into motion like a living thing remembering its shape. Faces were quieter than the day before—no groans about sore backs, no idle jokes traded across wagon gaps. Even the children, usually quick to fill silence, stayed close to their parents.
The road had not changed.
The people had.
Kristaphs moved ahead and to the left, never far from the treeline, his pace unhurried but deliberate. His gaze skimmed bark, brush, and shadow with equal weight, as if any of them might speak if watched long enough. Aluna kept nearer the wagons, one hand resting at her side, the other folded in prayer more from habit than ceremony. Her eyes were sharp, tracking movement in the tall grass and the way birds lifted too suddenly from cover.
The Song tightened.
Not sharply. Not enough to alarm on its own. But Sawyer felt it—threads pulled a fraction closer together, currents shortening, guidance shifting from convenience to caution. It no longer encouraged easy flow. It encouraged spacing. Awareness. Lines that could be closed quickly if needed.
Aluna spoke without raising her voice. "I need everyone to hear this," she said, calm but firm. The words carried anyway.
She turned so the nearest wagons could see her face. "There were tracks last night. Goblins. Not close enough to force a response, but close enough that they could be watching."
The caravan slowed—not stopping, but adjusting. Drivers tightened reins. A few hands drifted to tools that were not meant to be weapons and became them anyway. Conversation died cleanly, like a breath deliberately held.
Kristaphs glanced back once and nodded. Sawyer felt the weight of eyes settle on him—not fear, not trust, but expectation. The kind that followed once danger stopped being hypothetical.
No one argued.
No one panicked.
The road stretched on, unchanged.
But now, every step mattered.
By noon, the light had grown heavy.
It pressed down through the canopy in broken sheets, catching on leaves and bark and the pale dust kicked up by the wagons. Shadows no longer stretched kindly—they pooled. The road narrowed where roots had begun to claim its edges, forcing the caravan into a longer, thinner line. Heat dulled sound, turning conversation into murmurs and footfalls into a constant, muffled grind.
Sawyer felt it before he saw it.
The Song shifted—not enough to snap, but enough to hesitate. A hitch in the guidance. A suggestion withdrawn mid-thought. His stride shortened by instinct, weight settling into the balls of his feet as his gaze lifted toward the treeline on the right.
Something moved.
Not close. Far enough that distance tried to excuse it. A ripple where leaves should have been still. A bend in undergrowth that did not match the wind's lazy direction. Sawyer stopped walking.
A sound followed.
At first, it was nothing recognizable—just noise. Wood against wood, but wrong. Too fast. Too irregular. A dry, rattling clatter that scraped along the nerves rather than the ears, like branches being shaken by hands that did not care how loud they were being.
The noise came again.
Closer this time.
People near Sawyer flinched as one. A mule brayed, sharp and sudden, reins jerking taut. One of the wagons creaked as its driver hauled it to a halt a heartbeat too late. The sound from the foliage rose and fell in uneven bursts—racket was too clean a word for it. It was as if the forest itself were being worried apart, shaken by something impatient, something that did not move with the caution of a hunter.
Kristaphs turned instantly, hand lifting in a sharp, downward signal. Aluna's prayer cut off mid-breath.
Sawyer took one step off the road.
The Song compressed hard around him now, not guiding—bracing. It did not tell him where to go. It told him where not to let things reach. The noise scraped again through the trees, accompanied by the wet snap of undergrowth breaking under careless weight.
Too loud.
Too open.
Whatever it was, it wasn't trying to hide.
Sawyer raised a hand, palm out. "Stop," he said, voice low but carrying.
No one argued. The caravan froze in place, breath held, eyes fixed on the green wall to the right. The rattling came once more—closer still—and for the first time, Sawyer caught the faintest hint of rhythm beneath it.
Not random.
Excited.
Sawyer's hand tightened.
The sound didn't come from the trees.
It came from him.
A dry, sharp rattle snapped through the air—wood against wood, fast and uneven. It rang out again as Sawyer's bow shuddered in his grip, the laminated limbs vibrating hard enough to blur. The string quivered, not loosed, not drawn—struck, as if something unseen had plucked it with impatient fingers.
The noise was wrong.
Bows creaked. They groaned under strain. They sang when drawn true.
They did not chatter like shaken branches.
People nearest him recoiled before they understood why. A woman gasped. Someone swore under their breath. The sound crawled over skin, setting teeth on edge, stirring the same instinct that warned of rot or sickness long before the mind named it.
Sawyer stared down at the weapon.
The wood was intact. No cracks. No splinters. But the vibration ran deep, not along the surface—through the grain itself, as if the bow were answering something only it could hear. The rattling burst again, louder this time, a rapid-fire clatter that echoed unnaturally against the trees.
The Song spiked.
Not outward—inward. It collapsed around Sawyer's position, pressure folding tight, warning lines snapping into place with brutal clarity. It wasn't guiding crowds anymore. It was screaming proximity.
Aluna took a sharp step back. "Sawyer—"
Kristaphs's hand went halfway to his blade and stopped, eyes fixed on the bow.
Sawyer exhaled slowly and eased his grip.
The sound did not stop immediately. It decayed—fast, irregular clicks fading into a trembling hum before finally dying away. Silence crashed in after it, heavier than the noise had been.
The forest held its breath.
Sawyer lifted his gaze to the foliage where he'd thought movement had been. Nothing shifted now. Leaves lay still. Branches rested where they should. Whatever had prompted the bow's reaction had either stopped—or moved.
"That wasn't you, was it?" someone asked, voice thin.
Sawyer shook his head once. "No."
His pulse had not spiked. His breathing was steady. That frightened him more than panic would have. The bow rested quiet in his hands now, obedient, familiar—as if nothing had happened.
But the Song had not relaxed.
Kristaphs spoke at last, voice tight. "Whatever's out there," he said, "it's close enough to reach."
Sawyer shifted his stance, angling himself between the caravan and the treeline without conscious thought.
No one laughed.
No one moved.
The journey did not stop.
But it had crossed something unseen.
Time passed in watchful increments.
The caravan did not linger where the sound had come from. They moved on in tight formation, wheels turning just long enough to put distance between themselves and the treeline that had gone unnaturally still. When the road finally widened and the canopy thinned, Kristaphs raised a fist and brought them to a halt.
Lunch was called, quietly.
No fires were lit. No songs hummed. Cloaks stayed on shoulders despite the heat. People sat where they were told rather than where they preferred, backs to wagons, sightlines kept open. Bread was torn instead of sliced. Water skins were passed hand to hand without comment.
Sawyer remained standing for a while, bow resting against his shoulder, eyes scanning reflexively. The weapon was quiet now—too quiet—but he did not trust that silence. When he finally sat, it was with his back to a wagon wheel and his legs angled for a quick rise.
The Song loosened, but only slightly.
It allowed rest. It did not allow ease.
Aluna moved through the group with measured steps, offering soft reassurances that carried more weight than speeches. Kristaphs circled the perimeter, never stopping, never doubling back the same way twice. The civilians ate with the careful focus of people who knew better than to complain when danger lingered nearby.
Sawyer took a piece of bread and chewed without tasting it.
Every so often, his gaze drifted to the bow at his side.
It lay still. Silent. Ordinary.
And that, more than anything else, kept him alert.
The warning came without sound.
Sawyer's spine tightened first—a clean, instinctive jolt that had nothing to do with fear. Kristaphs slowed mid-step, hand hovering where his blade rested, eyes narrowing as if the air itself had shifted wrong. Agnes stiffened where she knelt, fingers digging into the dirt as a cold pressure slid along her senses.
Eyes.
Not one. Not a few.
Many.
The Song snapped taut.
It didn't guide. It counted—points of attention blooming all at once along the treeline, behind rocks, within shadowed brush that moments ago had been empty. Sawyer's bow thrummed once, a muted warning felt more than heard.
Agnes was already on her feet. "Up!" she shouted. "Prepare—now!"
The word hadn't finished echoing when they broke cover.
Small shapes burst from the foliage in a rush of motion and noise—goblins, lean and quick, skin mottled in sickly greens and grays. They came howling, brandishing crude blades and hooked spears, feet barely seeming to touch the ground as they sprinted toward the wagons.
Panic tried to bloom.
The Song crushed it flat.
"Arms up!" Agnes barked, voice cutting clean through the chaos. "Protect the civilians!"
Sawyer moved before thought caught up. His bow was in his hands, string drawn in a breath, the world narrowing to angles and distance. The first arrow flew and hit—a goblin tumbling end over end before it reached striking range. Another followed, then another, each loosed with mechanical calm as the Song fed him spacing, timing, clear lanes through the rush.
Kristaphs met the flank.
He slipped into motion like water finding a downhill path, blade flashing in tight, efficient arcs. A goblin lunged; Kristaphs stepped inside the swing and dropped it without breaking stride. He didn't shout. He didn't hurry. He simply reduced the threat, one precise movement at a time.
The goblins shrieked and pressed harder.
One vaulted a fallen log, spear angled for Sawyer's chest.
Agnes intercepted it.
An arrow rattled wind, the goblin rebounding backward as the force followed through. Dead upon impact. The creature hit the ground and didn't rise. Agnes pivoted instantly, placing herself between the charge and the nearest wagon, stance wide, breathing steady.
The civilians crouched low behind wheels and crates, eyes wide but hands moving as instructed. Someone dragged a child clear. Someone else braced a wagon pole like a spear. Aluna chanted a blessing as Bran braced near the civilians.
Another group breached the wood line running straight to the wagons. The winds suddenly drifted towards the center of the group as Faust channelled a wind blast. Swiftly eliminating the new threat.
The fight was short—but violent.
Arrows thudded. Steel rang. Goblins fell or scattered, the survivors breaking off with frantic yelps as quickly as they had come. Within moments, the road was quiet again, save for ragged breathing and the soft settling sounds of disturbed leaves.
Sawyer lowered his bow slowly.
The Song eased—but did not relax.
Agnes scanned the treeline, jaw tight. "That was a probe," she said. "A scouting party."
Kristaphs wiped his blade clean on the grass, eyes never leaving the shadows. "They must have been the ones that were following us," he added.
Sawyer felt it too—the lingering weight of attention pulling back, not gone, just repositioning.
The caravan had survived the clash.
But whatever hunted them now knew exactly where they stood.
And how many of them fight.