The morning smelled like wet rope and old coffee. Kael woke with the taste of the harbor still in his mouth from the night before — salt and smoke and a small, stubborn quiet that felt like a promise. He tied his boots slow, methodical, the way he always did, because routine kept his head level when everything else wanted to tilt.
Iron Resolve met at the west gate. No theatrics. No speeches. Lyra was already there, fingers worrying the edge of her sleeve. Mira fiddled with the scanner until it stopped arguing. Taren cracked his knuckles like someone preparing a ready hand. Joren grinned for five seconds and then folded it back down to steady.
Vale met them with three envelopes in his hand. "Short mission," he said. "Village to the east. Harrow's couriers were seen trading near the crossroad last night. Locals reported a small relay installed beneath a market stall. They flagged us. We move quietly, extract relay, bring anyone in who looks like they trade in mapped things. Keep civilians safe. No show."
Kael nodded. "People first."
Vale's eyes lingered on him a moment, as if reading a list. "Keep it tight. You might draw eyes."
They walked the lane together, boots in a rhythm that matched their breathing. The village was small — a string of stone houses, a market square wide enough for three wagons, a fallen bell that rang only when storm winds forced it to. People watched them arrive with the same mix of hope and distrust everyone had when soldiers showed up: useful, yes — but dangerous if the army decided anything besides help.
Mira's scanner chirped once and then again. "Relay footprint here," she said, voice low. "Small. Smarter than last week. It's hidden in a crate of dried fish."
"Of course it is," Joren muttered. "Who puts a relay in fish unless they expect people to be hungry?"
They moved like thieves. Lyra kept to the edges where children clung to grandparents. Kael kept his eyes on faces — not armor, not folds in cloaks — because faces told him where people would panic and where they would stand firm.
They found the crate under a stall, half-rotted wood smelling like salt and fish oil. Mira's hand slipped beneath the slats and pulled out a small device, wired into the crate's false bottom. It blinked like a small animal. It was meant to learn footsteps and calls and the timing of care.
Taren's jaw tightened. "We cut and go?"
Kael looked at the kids nearby. A little girl played with a carved wooden fish; she didn't know what a relay did. He thought of the ledger stacked away at the academy chest, the names there like a fever chart. He thought of Harrow and of couriers with bad tea.
"Not yet," he said. "We need to know who's been watching. Let them notice something, then take it silent."
Mira frowned. "You want to bait them?"
"No," Kael said. "We want to make them curious without giving them answers."
They arranged their pieces. Joren and Taren pretended clumsy interest in a nearby stall. Lyra moved children near the old well and made a little clapping game so their rhythm would muddle the relay's data. Kael stood where the market lane tightened, a silhouette that looked like a man who happened to be waiting for the day to begin.
An hour passed. The relay recorded noise and then tried to send a pulse. Nothing picked it up — because Kael had ordered the embassy of confusion. The device beeped as if someone had poked it; the watcher, farther down the alley, adjusted his angle. He was careful. Professional.
Kael saw him then — a shadow under a hood, a small camera glint on the roof. He gave no signal. He only shifted his weight, feet light, so the shadow's line of sight would cross the wrong piece of the market. The watcher moved. Too slow.
Mira slipped into the stall and cut the relay's feed. She didn't smash it; she took its brains, wrapped them in cloth, and slid the device into her pack. "Got it," she whispered.
The watcher cursed quietly and fled before they could move. He wasn't fast enough to be caught, but he left prints and panic in a place where panic was a valuable thing.
They regrouped behind a bakery and fed children bread off their own rations. The villagers hadn't seen the watcher leave; to them, soldiers had saved the day. Kindness went unannounced and people breathed easier.
Vale's voice came over the quiet. "You baited and you took. Smart."
Kael didn't say anything. He felt tired in places you couldn't patch with sleep. He felt the pressure under his ribs like a low drum — always there, always making him listen.
On the walk back, Mira tapped data into a sealed pad. "Relay's code sends micro-polls every twenty minutes," she said. "It's scavenger-grade and clever. It learns cadence. It's also tied to a relay hub near the old mill at the north bend."
Kael's shoulders tightened. "Harrow's network is crawling outward," he said. "They're scaling."
"That means they'll bring better tools," Joren said. "Bigger hands."
Lyra squeezed Kael's arm lightly. "Then we keep showing them wrong answers," she said. "We teach them the wrong rhythm."
He gave her a small smile, tired but honest. "We will."
Back in the academy the report filed itself into the quiet channels of command. Vale read it and did not smile. He copied a note to a strategist: Harrow's hub likely active. Recommend containment sweep. The note would be read, rerouted, archived. Someone somewhere would draw lines and place pins.
That night, Iron Resolve sat close in the mess. They ate in that easy silence that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with having each other. Lyra leaned her head on Kael's shoulder for a minute and then righted herself to joke about Mira's bad tea. Laughter was small and loud. It stitched something up.
Before sleep, Kael walked the training grounds alone. Rain had started, soft and persistent. He stood in the center and felt the pulse under his skin like a memory; not a power, not yet — just the sense that his choices were leaving a shape in the world. It was a strange kind of tired, like being useful had a cost he could already feel.
He sat on the low wall and looked at the city lights. Lyra joined him without fuss. They didn't talk for a long time. When they did, her voice was small and certain. "Promise me one thing."
He turned. "What?"
"Promise you won't keep it all," she said. "We carry you because we want to. Don't make it a burden you hoard."
He smiled, fragile. "I won't."
They sat with that promise like a warm cloak. Far away, someone cataloged their moves and added another line to a ledger that they would never see. Kael's name would be on reports and in margins, but it stayed another way — wet rope, small hands, and a decision to confuse the world's neat lines when lives were at stake.
He closed his eyes and let the rain wash him clean for a minute. It didn't take away the weight, but it made it bearable.