The river road tried to pass for easy travel.
In some stretches it ran wide and firm, packed hard by years of wheels and hooves. It gave long sightlines where reeds parted and the water flashed between stones. It even offered flat ground where your ankle could pretend it had healed.
Then the road narrowed without warning.
Mud waited in the dips, dark and patient, holding boots like it meant to keep them. Banks rose in sharp shoulders. A wrong step there did not just hurt. It took you off the line.
The convoy moved anyway.
The Company rider led from the front with the certainty of a man who believed the road answered to his schedule. His horse picked its steps with bored competence. His cloak stayed clean.
The wagons did not.
Wagon One rolled first. Wagon Two followed, heavy with crates that shifted with dull thuds when the ground turned uneven. Wagon Three kept the iron-bound chest bolted to its bed like a secret everyone had agreed not to name.
Eryk walked beside Wagon Two, close enough to see the spokes blur, far enough that a stumble would not put him under them.
His ankle burned.
It had been burning since they passed the gate. Now it had a rhythm. A flare on uneven ground, a settling on the flats, then flare again. The road made a metronome out of it.
He kept his attention on the strap Fenn had tightened, the one he had told Eryk to watch. Dark with old oil and new dust. Still snug.
That was how failure arrived. Quiet, then sudden.
The captain moved along the line in short passes, checking spacing, checking faces, checking hands. She spoke only when she needed to.
When she reached Eryk, she did not slow. Her gaze brushed his wrap and the new cord, then lifted to his eyes for a single beat.
Eryk held it long enough to look steady, then dropped his gaze back to the wheel.
He was learning how to place attention so it read as obedience instead of fear.
Brann walked nearer the Company wagons, where he could hear the rider when the man chose to speak down at them. Brann's posture looked loose.
His eyes were not.
Harl trudged near the pot cart, muttering as he went. From a distance it could have been prayer. Up close it was complaints about rope, stew, and men who treated hunger like a nuisance.
Garr stayed on the outer side of Wagon Two, between convoy and brush. He moved like the wagon's shadow, never quite lagging, never quite ahead.
Sella was gone.
That did not mean she was absent. It meant she was where she wanted to be.
Fenn stayed with the axle, hand on metal, eyes on the road. He looked like someone who had been given a single job and decided it was the only job worth living through.
Eryk tried to match their steadiness.
Steady did not mean calm.
It meant controlled.
The first test came before the sun climbed high.
The road bent toward the river. The bank tightened. The path narrowed into a strip of hard earth with reeds on one side and a drop to water on the other. The current ran fast here, dark green with pale streaks of foam caught on rocks.
The Company rider lifted a hand without looking back.
The wagons slowed.
Wagon One's driver swore and tugged the reins, guiding the wheels onto the safest line. The oxen leaned into the yoke with dull patience.
A wheel rode too close to the edge.
The bank gave.
It was not a grand collapse. No thunder. Just two fists of earth breaking away with a soft, ugly sound, and the wheel dipping.
The wagon lurched. The crates inside shifted and thudded.
The driver cursed louder.
The oxen snorted, confused by the sudden change in pull. The wagon tilted just enough that the river felt close enough to touch.
Brann's voice cut across the line, calm and sharp.
"Hold."
The convoy stopped.
The Company rider twisted in his saddle, irritation already on his face.
"Keep moving," he called.
Brann ignored him.
Garr moved.
He did not rush. He stepped in, shoulder to the wagon bed, and pushed. His boots dug into packed earth. His arms tightened. The wagon rose a fraction, the dipped wheel clawing for purchase.
Fenn dropped to one knee by the axle, palm on the hub, eyes narrowed.
"Strap," he said.
Eryk stepped in and grabbed the strap end Fenn indicated, bracing his foot and pulling just enough to keep the load from shifting.
His ankle screamed.
He kept his face blank and held tension anyway.
The wheel caught.
The wagon rocked back onto firmer ground with a jolt that ran up Eryk's arms and rattled his teeth. Inside, the crates settled with one final heavy thunk.
Garr stepped back, breathing steady. He looked finished, not pleased.
Brann lifted his hand again.
"Move."
The convoy started up once more.
The Company rider stared at Brann as if weighing whether to turn it into a fight.
The captain walked up beside Brann, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She looked up at the rider.
"Our wagon tips," she said, "your chest goes in the river."
The rider's eyes narrowed.
"You were hired to escort," he snapped.
"We are escorting," the captain replied, voice level. "That includes keeping your pay from drowning."
The rider looked away first and turned forward.
"Keep pace," he said, as if the road had listened.
Harl's mutter drifted through the line. "The ground doesn't take orders."
Garr shot him a glance.
Harl managed silence for three steps, then started again.
Eryk let his breath out slowly. His hands shook, not with fear, with strain and pain.
Fenn walked beside him for a moment, still watching the axle.
"You pulled the right amount," Fenn said.
Eryk looked at him.
Fenn did not look back.
"If you yank, the crate shifts. If it shifts, the lash sings," Fenn continued. "If it sings, Company eyes stay on us for an hour."
Eryk swallowed.
"So," he said quietly, "useful."
Fenn's mouth twitched. "Useful."
Then he drifted back to his post.
Eryk kept walking.
He could still feel the edge crumbling in his bones. The moment where the road had tried to take the wagon and the convoy had refused.
That was the difference between work and dying.
Someone did something before it became too late.
The day wore on.
The river stayed close, appearing and vanishing behind bends and stands of willow. Sometimes the road rose away from it and the air dried enough to breathe without tasting wet stone. Sometimes it dropped again and the damp settled into ears and cloth.
They passed two fishermen hauling nets onto a gravel bar. The men looked up, saw wagons and spears, and looked away again.
They knew better than to watch for long.
They passed a burned patch of reeds where ash still clung to stalks. The scorch line stopped too neatly at the road's edge, like someone had decided where the fire would end.
Eryk kept the thought to himself.
Near midday a marker post stood beside the road with a strip of faded cloth tied to it. The Company rider slowed.
Brann moved closer to hear him. The captain stayed a half step behind Brann and let him take the front.
"Turnoff soon," the rider said. "We take the inland cut before dusk."
Brann's eyes went to the treeline, then to the river, then back to the road ahead.
"That cut is narrow," Brann said.
"It is faster," the rider replied.
Brann's mouth tightened.
The rider smiled without warmth. "You get paid at the far end. Faster gets you there."
Harl's voice floated up from behind, low enough to pass for wind. "Faster gets you buried quicker too."
The captain turned her head a fraction. Harl went quiet.
Brann nodded once.
"Then we take it," he said.
The rider looked satisfied and spurred his horse forward.
The convoy followed.
Eryk felt the change before the road even turned.
The air shifted. Less river damp, more leaf rot and old soil. Light dimmed under thicker branches. Sound carried differently. The wagons sounded louder, even when nothing changed about them.
Fenn's posture tightened, hand still on metal.
Garr moved closer to the brush.
The captain lifted two fingers. The spacing widened. Each person gained a little room to move without tripping another.
No one spoke.
The road narrowed into a corridor of trees. The river vanished behind them.
Now it was only wagons and woods.
Half a mile in, Eryk saw the line across the path.
A fallen tree.
Too clean. Branches trimmed back. Bark scraped where it had been dragged. The trunk lay set across the road like a door someone had chosen to close.
His throat tightened.
He could hear his heartbeat again.
The Company rider cursed and hauled his horse up short.
Wagon One slowed. The oxen snorted, stamping.
Brann's hand rose.
The convoy stopped.
The woods held quiet.
Wrong quiet.
Eryk's eyes wanted to dart left and right. He remembered Fenn's warning and forced his gaze to settle on the trunk, as if it was only wood and not a sign.
Fenn leaned close, voice barely there.
"Slow eyes," he murmured. "Fast eyes make you easy to read."
Eryk breathed out and steadied his stare.
The Company rider raised his voice.
"Clear it," he called. "We're behind."
No one moved.
Brann did not answer him.
He looked toward the brush on the right and spoke as if he was addressing air.
"Show yourselves."
A pause.
Then a soft laugh came from among the trees.
A man stepped out onto the road ahead of the trunk. Thin, patched coat, red cloth tied around his upper arm. His hands were held out wide to show they were empty.
Two more shapes appeared behind him, half-hidden.
Then another.
The first man smiled.
"Toll," he said.
The Company rider snorted. "This is Company road."
The smile widened. "Company pays toll like anyone else."
Brann's gaze stayed on the man's hands, then his boots, then the way his weight sat on his back foot. Ready to move.
Brann spoke, calm.
"What do you want."
"Coin," the man said. "Food. A barrel if you feel kind."
Harl muttered behind them, too low to carry far. "They always want a barrel."
The captain's eyes stayed on the treeline, not on the speaker.
"Where are your bows," she asked.
The man blinked, then laughed again. "We don't need bows."
Sella appeared at the edge of the road.
She did not announce herself. She simply existed there, half in shadow. Bow in hand. String on. Arrow already nocked.
Her eyes were calm.
The man's laugh died mid-breath.
He looked from Sella to the captain and swallowed.
Brann's voice stayed even.
"Move the tree."
The man hesitated.
Behind him, one of the hidden shapes shifted. A leaf trembled.
Garr's hand slid, slow, toward his knife.
Eryk kept his hands visible and tried not to shake. He could feel the moment balancing, and he understood how hard it would fall if it tipped.
The Company rider reached down and drew a short blade, as if steel could solve the world on its own.
The man's eyes snapped to it, then to the wagons, then back to Brann.
"Coin," he insisted, but his voice had lost its bite.
Brann took one step forward.
He did not raise his weapon. He did not shout.
"You're standing in front of Company wagons," he said. "You think you're taking from them. You're taking from us too. We don't share our food with thieves."
The man's mouth tightened.
"You're mercs," he snapped. "You work for coin. You understand."
Brann nodded once. "I understand leverage."
The man's eyes flicked to the treeline where more men might be waiting.
Brann saw the glance. He did not move his own gaze.
"If you have more, show them," Brann said. "If you don't, move the tree and walk away."
Silence stretched.
Then a different voice spoke from the woods, deeper, closer.
"Enough."
An older man stepped out.
Beard rough. Scar across one cheek. He carried a bow, arrow aimed at the ground, not at anyone. He did not look like he wanted a fight. He looked like he wanted to live through the day.
He took in the Company rider first, then the captain, then Brann. His eyes caught on Sella and stayed there a moment, measuring.
He made his decision.
"We're hungry," the older man said.
It sounded like truth.
The captain's gaze sharpened. "You block a Company route, you get hunted."
The older man's jaw worked. "We've been hunted before."
Harl's voice slid in softly. "And it went well."
The older man ignored him.
"One sack," he said. "Bread. Dried meat. No coin. We let you pass."
Brann's eyes went to the Company rider.
The rider spat into the dirt. "No."
The captain did not look at him.
"One sack costs less than blood," she said to Brann.
Brann's mouth tightened. Eryk could see how much he hated it.
Brann nodded once anyway.
Harl sighed like the world had personally insulted him and reached into a cart. He came out with a small sack.
He did not toss it.
He carried it forward with both hands, like it mattered.
The older man watched him.
"Put it down," he said.
Harl placed it at the base of the trunk and backed away.
Two of the bandits moved fast, grabbed the sack, and retreated into the trees.
The older man kept his eyes on Sella's bow while it happened.
Then he lifted a hand.
"Move it."
His men stepped to the trunk and began to roll it aside. The scrape of wood on packed earth sounded loud in the corridor of trees. It took effort. Their hands were thin. Their wrists looked too small for the work.
Hunger lived in them, not as drama, as fact.
The trunk finally shifted enough for a wagon to pass.
Brann lifted his hand.
"Move."
The convoy started again, wheels creaking as they rolled past the place the road had been closed.
The older man stepped back into the trees.
Before he vanished, his eyes found Eryk.
It was not a threat.
It was recognition. The look of someone who had counted you as the same kind of thing.
Eryk looked away and kept walking.
His ankle flared sharp, as if punishing him for noticing.
They pushed until the light began to fade.
They made camp in a shallow hollow off the road, hidden from a casual glance. The Company rider complained until the captain spoke to him once, low and flat, and he went quiet.
The wagons set into a curve. Fires were kept small. Smoke pressed down with wet leaf and careful breath.
Eryk was told to sit by Wagon Two with his hands visible.
He did.
As dusk settled, Fenn came to him with a strip of cloth.
"Wrap again," Fenn said.
Eryk looked at it. "It will hold."
Fenn's eyes stayed on the axle. "Hold isn't the same as last."
Eryk took the cloth and tightened the brace. His fingers moved with tired precision. His ankle did not thank him.
When he finished, Fenn nodded once.
"Good," he said. "You kept pace."
Eryk swallowed. "I almost spoke."
Fenn's mouth twitched. "At the tree."
Eryk nodded.
Fenn looked at him directly then, just for a beat.
"And you didn't," Fenn said. "That's work too."
Work.
Not bravery. Not strength.
A choice made under pressure.
The captain walked the line as night thickened.
When she reached Eryk, she paused. Her eyes went to his wrap, his hands, the way he sat with his back to the wheel and his gaze low.
"You learned," she said.
Eryk lifted his eyes carefully. "Some."
The captain nodded, almost satisfied.
"Tomorrow the inland road gets worse," she said. "If you fall behind, the Company won't stop for you."
Eryk's throat tightened. "I know."
Her gaze flicked toward the dark beyond the wagons where the woods pressed close.
"Then stay useful," she said, and moved on.
Eryk sat in the thin heat of the small fire and listened to the convoy settle.
Harl muttered as he checked the pot lash. Garr shifted on watch, boots quiet. The Company rider whispered to one of his guards like the guard was the only person worth speaking to.
The woods listened too.
Eryk kept his hands still.
He kept his eyes down.
He did not sleep.
He listened for the scrape of wood on road, for the sound of a tree being dragged into place again.
And for the first time since Blackstone, he understood a rule that was not written anywhere.
The road did not care if you meant well.
It cared if you slowed.