Killan reached the pass at first light.
Stone rose like broken teeth on either side of the narrow road, scarred with old soot and newer blood. The wind cut straight through armor seams and carried the smell of iron and wet ash. This was not a place meant for rest.
Asta stood near the eastern watch fire, helm off, dark hair damp with sweat despite the cold. Santi sat against a rock with a sword across his lap, eyes half-lidded but sharp. Harlan was crouched, checking the bindings on a wounded man's arm, his hands steady in a way that spoke of too many repetitions.
They looked up together.
"You're late," Harlan said.
Killan dismounted and passed the reins to a runner. "You're still standing. I'd say we're even."
