The road back to Athax was too quiet for what they carried.
No one sang. No one spoke above a murmur. Even the horses seemed to feel the weight of it—the way the children clutched borrowed cloaks, the way blood still darkened the hems of Northern armor strapped to pack saddles.
Aya rode at the head, spine straight, gaze fixed forward, with Masa sticking close behind her.
The Northerners rode as they always did: banners bound tight against the wind, armor dulled by use rather than polish, lines clean and formal. They kept formation by habit, by years of drilled loyalty. When a child stumbled under escort, a soldier slowed without breaking rank. When a horse faltered, two more shifted to shield it. Everything was done by rule—seen, noted, corrected.
Frost Fire moved differently.
They did not hold tight lines. They flowed.
