They moved at first light.
There was no shout and no horn, only straps pulled snug, canvas rolled tight, and a low curse when a knot bit wrong and had to be redone.
Eryk woke to the camp unmaking itself.
He stayed still for a breath, listening the way he had learned to listen in places where waking first got you hurt. Here it made you something else. In the way, if you did not clear yourself.
Fenn's steps were easy to pick out now. Light and quick, always circling back to the second cart like a habit he could not afford to lose. Garr's were heavier, steady as a mallet. Garr walked like he expected the ground to hold, and would take it personally if it didn't.
Harl was already crouched at the dead fire pit, stirring ash with a stick as if the embers might admit they had failed him.
When Eryk sat up, Harl glanced over.
"You're alive," he said.
Eryk folded his blanket tight and rolled it the way he had seen them do, not the way he would have done alone.
Harl made a small sound in his throat.
"Try to keep that up," he added. "Dead boys make the carts smell."
Eryk did not answer. He was learning that answers could cost, and silence could too, but less often.
Near the half-filled ditch, the captain spoke to Brann in a voice kept low even when no one stood close enough to steal it. She rubbed her thumb once against the dark stain on her sleeve. It did not come off.
Brann nodded once, then straightened.
"Move," he called.
The word traveled. Men rose. Packs lifted. The ditch was stepped over without anyone catching a heel, as if the ground had learned the route and punished anyone who pretended it hadn't.
Eryk shouldered his pack. The strap dug into old marks on his shoulder and woke them. His ankle burned in a steady, contained way, pain that could be worked around as long as he did not treat it like a secret.
He fell in beside the second cart without being told.
Fenn was already there, palm on the axle housing. He stared at the road ahead like he was listening through his eyes.
After a few minutes he said, "River today."
Eryk kept his gaze forward.
"So I heard."
Fenn's mouth twitched.
"You hear a lot," he said. "Try not to repeat it."
Eryk nodded once.
The road out of the clearing was damp and narrow. Trees leaned close. The air held wet leaf and old smoke. Somewhere in the undergrowth, something small moved, then stopped when the line passed, as if it had learned that motion drew notice.
They walked for hours without talk worth keeping. When voices rose, it was for practical things.
"Wheel's catching."
"Swap the lash."
"Left side. Mud."
The captain stayed ahead. Brann drifted between carts, checking loads without touching them, like a man who could see weight and where it wanted to shift. Harl walked near the pot lashed to the cart, one hand on the rope as if he did not trust it not to betray him.
Sella moved in the trees to the right. Sometimes close enough that Eryk caught a flash of her hair, then she was gone again. When she appeared it always felt like she had stepped out of bark.
Eryk tried not to look.
He failed once.
Sella's head turned. Her eyes found him through branches.
Eryk looked away fast enough that his neck pulled.
No comment came. That was worse than a comment, because it meant she had chosen silence.
By midday the land fell away and the air changed. You could smell water before you saw it. Cold and silt and that clean bite that made your mouth water even when you had enough.
The road widened. Wagon ruts deepened into dark grooves. More tracks crossed it, some old, some fresh, and the fresh ones made Eryk's stomach tighten. Fresh meant someone else had been here recently, and had gone somewhere.
Fenn touched the axle and pulled his hand away.
"Hot," he said.
Harl shot him a look.
"It's metal," Harl said. "Metal gets hot. Try not to insult it."
Fenn ignored him and tightened a strap until the leather creaked.
Brann came alongside for a few steps.
"Toll ahead," he said, not quite to anyone.
A few men muttered curses like prayers that expected no answer.
The captain did not slow. She lifted two fingers, and the line tightened. The change ran through them quiet and clean, spacing adjusted, voices lowered, eyes set.
Eryk felt his stomach knot.
Toll meant a barrier. Barrier meant men who could stop you and call it lawful. Men who asked questions and decided what your answers meant.
He had learned what questions were for.
They crested a low rise and the river came into view.
Wide and fast. A moving body that could take a cart and not notice.
A bridge spanned it, stone piers with a wooden deck laid across. Old work, patched many times. The planks were darker in the middle where wheels had worn them smooth, and the edges were lighter where men avoided them without thinking.
At the near end stood a beam set across the road, thick and waist high, lifted by a chain and pulley. Beside it sat a low hut of timber and tarred cloth, roof dark with pitch.
Two men sat on stools before the hut, spears resting across their knees. They watched the road like it had offended them. Behind them four more stood in shade, hands on belts, faces blank.
A seventh leaned against the hut wall with a book on his knee and a stylus in hand.
The counter.
The band slowed.
The captain stepped forward alone. Brann moved with her, a pace behind, close enough to be heard and far enough to pretend he wasn't there if the wrong man decided to take offense.
One spear man rose and laid his palm on the beam, as if touching it made the road belong to him.
"Stop," he called.
The line stopped.
Not in a clump. In gaps.
Eryk stood by the cart and kept his eyes down. The river wind touched his face. It smelled like wet stone and cold current.
The spear man looked at the captain.
"Mark," he said.
The captain drew out a folded slip and held it out two fingers wide, clean and visible.
The counter came forward. He did not look at her face. He looked at the paper.
Brann watched him the way you watched a hand near a knife.
The counter unfolded the slip and read. His lips moved without sound. He traced one line with his nail, then looked up.
"Company move," he said.
The captain did not answer.
The counter frowned, annoyed at being treated like a function instead of a person.
"Coin," he said.
Brann spoke, calm.
"Coin was paid at the last crossing."
"That was last crossing," the counter said. "This is this crossing."
From behind the carts, Harl's voice drifted loud enough to carry.
"Every crossing thinks it's the first."
Garr made a sound that might have been a laugh in a kinder man.
The captain waited.
The counter looked past them at the carts.
"How many," he asked.
Brann did not answer.
The captain lifted her chin toward the line, a small motion that meant count if you care enough to waste time.
The counter's eyes narrowed as if he disliked being made to work for his own theft.
"You bring a lot," he said.
"We bring what we carry," Brann replied.
The counter glanced at the spear man by the beam.
"Three coppers a wheel," he said. "Two a foot. Double for beast."
Harl muttered something that sounded like prayer and didn't belong to any god.
The captain drew out a small pouch. She did not pour it. She shook it once so the counter could hear the weight.
He held out his hand.
She poured coin into his palm.
He counted without looking down. You could hear the tick of copper against nail, one by one, steady as breath.
Eryk found himself watching the counter's fingers.
The nail on his thumb was not cleanly cut. It had a slight hook to it, a sharp edge worn into shape by repetition.
Brann's gaze stayed on the counter's wrist. On the way the fingers closed.
The counter finished and held up two coins between finger and thumb.
"Short," he said.
Silence tightened.
Fenn leaned close to the cart and whispered, barely moving his mouth.
"He lies."
Eryk did not answer. He did not know if the whisper was meant for him or for the axle, and it did not matter. It was true either way.
The captain's voice stayed even.
"Count again."
The counter's mouth tightened, offended, not afraid. He counted again, slower and louder, making a show of each coin.
The hook of his thumb moved the same way.
He ended the same.
"Short."
Brann took one step forward.
"Your nail is taking one," Brann said.
The spear man's grip tightened. The point lowered an inch.
The counter's eyes went flat.
"Accusation is a fine," he said.
Harl made a small sound, like a man swallowing something sharp.
The captain lifted a hand, stopping Brann without touching him.
She looked at the counter.
"Show your palm."
The counter held his hand out.
Empty palm.
The captain's gaze went to his nails. To the faint copper dust caught beneath the edge. Small enough to deny. Clear enough to see if you knew what you were looking for.
The counter curled his fingers.
Brann did not move.
"That dust wasn't there," he said.
The air shifted. This was where fights began, not with blows, but with a decision.
Eryk felt his body tighten in a way that was not fear alone. It was memory. A yard. A line. Someone deciding that you were allowed to be hurt because it was useful to someone else.
The captain exhaled once.
Then she reached into her pouch and dropped two more coins into the counter's hand.
The sound was small and sharp.
"No accusation," she said. "No fine. Lift the beam."
Brann's eyes flicked to her. Something quick lived there, then went flat again.
The counter closed his fist around the coin and nodded to the spear man.
The beam lifted.
The captain turned back toward the line.
"Move."
They moved.
Wheels first, careful on the planks. Footsteps after. The bridge creaked under weight. The river ran beneath them fast enough that it pulled at your eyes, fast enough that staring too long made you feel like you were moving when you weren't.
Halfway across, Eryk looked down.
Dark green water, white in places. Branches and foam and something that might have been cloth, or his mind looking for shapes to fear.
He looked up again and kept walking.
On the far side, the spear men watched them pass without speaking. The counter sat back down and opened his book. He wrote as if writing made the coin clean.
Eryk felt his hands curl.
He hated that the captain had paid.
He hated more that he understood why.
A fight here would have been loud. Loud drew eyes. Eyes drew pursuit. Two coins were cheaper than a story that followed you.
Once the bridge was behind them, the land rose and the road turned away from the river. Ahead, smoke rose in thin columns.
Too many. Too even.
The Company camp.
The captain slowed until she was level with Brann.
"You paid him," Brann said.
"You saw his spear," she replied.
Brann's mouth tightened.
"So we feed thieves."
"We feed gates," she said. "We buy time."
Brann looked ahead at the smoke.
"And the Company feeds next."
The captain did not deny it.
Eryk listened without looking like he listened.
A figure stepped onto the road behind them.
A man, thin, limping like the injury was new. His coat was torn at the hem. A strip of cloth was tied around his forearm, soaked through and dark.
He raised a hand like waving could make him harmless.
"Wait," he called.
The line did not stop.
The captain's head turned half an inch. That was all.
The man hurried, stumbling as he tried to keep pace.
"Please," he said. "I saw your carts. I can work. I can carry. I can take watch. I just need to get to the other side with someone who won't sell me."
Harl muttered, "We don't sell. We trade."
Garr shot him a look.
The man came closer, close enough that Eryk could see his face. Not old. Maybe twenty. Eyes red rimmed. Lips cracked.
At his throat hung a small wooden charm on a cord, carved into the shape of a fish. Worn smooth as a worry stone. His fingers kept finding it, rubbing it once, then letting it fall, then grabbing it again like he could not stop.
He looked at Eryk last, like the sight of a younger boy made hope easier.
"I'll eat little," he said. "I can sleep out. I'm not trouble. I swear it."
Brann did not turn.
The captain did.
She stopped walking.
The line flowed around her, as if the road had learned to keep moving even when one person paused.
The man stopped too, hands out, palms open.
The captain's gaze dropped to his forearm. To the dark soak.
"Where," she asked.
The man blinked, surprised at the single word.
"Downriver," he said. "A patrol came. They took men for work. They took my brother. They took my coin. I ran."
The captain's eyes lifted.
"You ran," she repeated.
"Yes," he said. "I ran. I got away."
Brann's head turned slightly, just enough that Eryk saw the angle of his jaw.
The captain looked past the man to the road behind him.
"Who else."
The man hesitated.
"No one," he said.
The lie sat between them like smoke.
Sella stepped from the trees to the right and moved closer, silent. Not threatening. Not friendly. Present.
The man's eyes flicked to her and back to the captain. His breathing quickened.
"I didn't bring anyone," he said, voice rising. "I just followed the road."
"Roads carry more than feet," the captain said.
The man swallowed.
"I can work," he said again. "Just to the Company camp. I'll make myself useful. I swear it."
Harl took a step, then stopped. The humor in his face had pulled back, leaving only the scar and the tired.
Garr's eyes stayed on the man's hands.
Fenn looked down at the ground, jaw clenched, as if he did not want to watch what came next.
Eryk felt something in his chest tighten. He recognized the shape of the man's voice. He had heard it in Blackstone, not the words, the tone. The way need tried to make itself smaller so it would be tolerated.
A word rose in Eryk's throat.
A stupid one.
Let him.
His tongue pressed against his teeth and he held it there until it stopped shaking.
The captain spoke.
"No."
Just that.
The man stared like he had not understood.
"No," she repeated. "You bleed. You lie. You followed us from the bridge."
"I didn't," he started.
Brann turned fully at last.
"Keep walking," he said to the line, and the line kept walking.
Then he looked at the man.
"Go back across. Pay your toll if you want to live."
The man's face twisted.
"I don't have coin," he said.
Harl's voice went soft.
"Then you don't have crossing."
The man's eyes went to Eryk.
"You were a stray too," he said, voice cracking. "You're walking with them."
Eryk's throat tightened.
He did not know what to say. Anything would sound like a claim. He did not own his place yet. He could be dropped just as fast.
The captain looked at Eryk.
No blame. No warmth.
A quick weighing, the same look she used on straps and distance.
Eryk kept his face still.
He said nothing.
The man's hope collapsed in his eyes.
He took a half step forward, like he might grab the captain's sleeve and force her to feel him.
Garr moved.
He did not draw a blade. He did not shove.
He stepped into the space and raised his hand, palm out, stopping the motion like a door stops a body.
"Don't," Garr said.
Quiet.
Enough.
The man froze, then backed away, breathing hard.
"You're all dogs," he spat, anger flaring up to hide fear.
Sella's eyes narrowed.
Harl's mouth pulled up a fraction.
"Dogs bite," Harl said.
The man looked down the road behind them, then back at the bridge. His shoulders sagged.
His fingers found the fish charm once more, squeezed it hard enough that his knuckles went white, then let it fall.
He turned away and limped back toward the beam, heavier now, like the road itself had decided to punish him for trying.
The captain watched until he was far enough that his voice could not reach.
Then she turned and walked again.
Brann fell in beside her.
No one spoke of it.
That was the rule. You did not pay for mercy you could not afford by talking about it after.
Fenn came level with Eryk for a few steps.
"You did right," he said, so low it was almost nothing.
Eryk looked at him, careful.
Fenn's eyes stayed on the road.
"Not speaking," Fenn added. "Not making it about you."
Eryk swallowed.
"It was," he began, then stopped.
Fenn's mouth twitched.
"Everything is," he said. "That's why you keep it behind your teeth."
He drifted back to his axle.
The smoke ahead thickened.
The road widened into packed earth flattened by hundreds of wheels. Stakes lined the sides, some with cloth tied to them, faded marks that meant something to those who knew.
The Company camp came into view.
Canvas and timber and carts set in arcs. Rope lines marking lanes. Fires kept low. Platforms at intervals with men posted on them, still as nails driven into the place.
Eryk felt his gut tighten.
This was a mouth. A place that ate movement and left bones clean.
At the lane gate, rope hung between two posts. Two guards watched with spears and bored eyes. Beside them stood a man with a board and stylus, shoulders hunched like writing had made him smaller.
The captain slowed. Brann walked up beside her, hands loose at his sides like a man trying not to look like he carried anything worth taking.
The guards did not call out.
One lifted his chin toward the carts.
Brann produced a folded slip.
Paper.
The guard took it, unfolded it, read without hurry, and handed it back.
"Outer lane," he said.
The captain nodded.
The band turned in, wheels following the rope like it was a riverbed. Men moved aside without complaint. Carts did not tangle here. If they did, someone would be made to answer for it.
As they rolled deeper, Eryk saw faces.
Working faces. A man hammering a rim. A woman stitching canvas with her teeth clamped on thread. Two boys hauling water in half skins, careful not to spill.
One of the boys stumbled. The older man beside him snapped two fingers for silence, sharp and quick, then, when no one was looking, steadied the boy by the elbow anyway. A private mercy, fast as a blink.
Eryk watched it and felt something tighten behind his ribs.
The lane opened into a ring of carts and low tents near the edge. Rope boundary close. Beyond it, open ground, trampled and bare.
A place where nothing stayed.
Two guards approached.
One had work scarred hands and calm eyes. Eryk recognized him, the same kind of still that watched without showing it.
His gaze went to Eryk's ankle. To Eryk's face. Away again.
"You brought the stray," the guard said.
The captain nodded.
"He kept pace," she replied.
The guard grunted once.
"Outer ring."
Harl muttered, "That's where the wind sleeps."
Fenn shot him a look.
Harl spread his hands as if he could not help himself.
Sella did not speak. Her eyes tracked the rope line and the guards beyond it.
Garr lifted Eryk's pack and set it down where the captain pointed.
Placement, nothing more.
The captain looked at Eryk.
"You stay where you're put," she said. "You don't wander. You don't beg. You don't touch what isn't handed to you."
Eryk nodded. His mouth was dry.
"And if I need," he started, because the question rose like bile.
"You will need," the captain said. "Everyone does. You will learn when it's worth speaking."
The guard with the work scarred hands crouched by Eryk's ankle without asking. He tugged the wrap once, retightening it with a quick, practiced pull, then flattened the cloth so it would not rub raw.
"Tight holds," he said.
Eryk froze.
"Loose breaks," the guard finished.
Then he stood and was already looking past Eryk, back to rope and lanes.
Brann's gaze moved over the camp.
"Someone's watching," he said.
Harl snorted softly.
"Someone's always watching."
Brann did not smile. He glanced toward a raised platform on the inner ring, where a sentry stood with hands on the rail, head turning slow and steady.
Watching.
The hairs on Eryk's arms lifted.
The captain pointed.
"There."
Eryk took his blanket and pack and limped to the spot she indicated near the rope boundary, where the ground was hard and bare.
The outer ring.
A place for what you had not decided to trust.
A place for what you were willing to lose first.
He set his things down carefully. Placed, not thrown.
When he straightened, he could feel eyes on him.
Not the band's eyes.
Other eyes. Curious, tired, hungry.
The camp did not greet him.
It measured him.
Eryk sat on his blanket with his back to a cart wheel and kept his face blank.
He listened to the camp breathe. Rope creaking. Low talk. A hammer tapping somewhere deeper in, then stopping, as if sound itself had to report and be excused.
And above it all, the sense of being inside a larger shape.
Not Blackstone.
Not yet.
But something that could become it if you stayed too long.
Eryk lowered his eyes and kept his hands still.
He did not sleep.
He waited.