The road did not forgive them for surviving. It stretched on through the night, pale and uneven beneath dim starlight, offering no comfort beyond the simple fact that it continued forward. The Osborn Clan moved slowly now. Not because they were hunted—no presence followed them, no footsteps echoed too close—but because exhaustion had finally claimed its due.
The carts rolled with care, wheels wrapped where possible, cracks bound with rope and cloth. Every creak sounded louder in the dark. No one spoke unless necessary. When they did, voices stayed low, practical, stripped of excess.
They did not light torches. Moonlight was enough. John Osborn rode near the front, his posture rigid despite the pain that still pulled at his leg. Essie walked close by, one hand always near the cart rail, ready to steady him if he faltered. Robert moved along the flank for a time, then drifted back, then forward again—never pacing, never restless. Just present.
