"Move!"
The shout cut through everything.
I flinched as Jaheira snapped another stone into her sling, already turning her shoulders for the next cast. Irritation edged her voice—not panic, not fear, but the sharp bite of someone forced to waste breath on the obvious.
"This is no time to stand and stare!"
The moment cracked. Breath surged back into my lungs, sharp and uneven. My grip tightened reflexively, knuckles aching as the noise of the fight rushed back in all at once.
To my right, Khalid ended his opponent with brutal efficiency. He raised his shield just long enough to spoil a desperate swing, then stepped in and drove his blade forward without hesitation. The hobgoblin folded, dropped, and stayed down.
Khalid was already turning away before the body hit the ground, eyes searching for the next threat.
That was when I saw him.
The hobgoblin still standing—the one who hadn't broken, hadn't rushed, hadn't died. Bigger than the others. Smarter—
No. Bigger, at least.
The reminder came unbidden: this one was the problem.
Imoen fired from close range. The hobgoblin twisted, blade flashing as he knocked the arrow aside. Wood splintered against a tree behind him.
He snarled, reached up, and ripped a dart from his shoulder. In the same motion, he stepped forward and drove it into Montaron's neck.
Montaron cursed sharply, staggering as the sword followed through, steel biting just enough to draw blood. Dark spread across leather.
The hobgoblin straightened.
And this time, he was smiling.
That smile vanished as Montaron lunged.
It wasn't elegant. Just a sharp, irritated jab to the gut—close, mean, and fueled by pain. The breath left the creature in a harsh grunt, posture breaking as it recoiled.
Khalid was already there.
He stepped in as the hobgoblin faltered, sword rising once and falling without flourish. The motion was clean. Final. The body collapsed a heartbeat later, momentum spent.
Silence rushed in where the noise had been.
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until it burned.
Montaron took a step back—and then another. His hand went to his neck, fingers slick with blood. He hissed, jaw tight, more offended than afraid.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "That stings."
Jaheira was already moving toward him, eyes sharp, expression unreadable as she took in the wound.
For reasons I didn't want to examine too closely, I was suddenly grateful she didn't know who she was standing next to.
Didn't know that Xzar and Montaron weren't just unpleasant travel companions, but something fundamentally opposed to people like her and Khalid. The Zhentarim and the Harpers were never meant to trust one another—never meant to stand side by side in anything resembling good faith.
And judging by the blood on Montaron's neck and the tension in Jaheira's posture, now was very much not the time for that truth to surface.
"Hold still," Jaheira said. "Let me have a look at that wound."
Montaron snorted, jerking back just out of reach.
"I'm fine, woman," he snapped. "Been worse."
The clearing settled gradually after that.
Wind stirred through the trees. Leather creaked as Khalid wiped his blade clean and resettled his shield. Jaheira scanned the treeline one last time, sling lowered but not forgotten, before finally nodding to herself.
Clear enough.
I stood there longer than necessary, breath still uneven, replaying the moment where I'd moved instead of freezing. It hadn't been graceful. It hadn't even been smart.
But it had been enough.
What unsettled me was how little my equipment had mattered.
Steel helped. Distance helped. Luck helped. But none of it would have counted if I hadn't known when to act. In another life—or another save—I would have clung to the diamond at my belt, convinced that having the right thing was the same as being ready.
It wasn't.
Readiness came first.
Everything else was just insurance.
That thought sat heavier than the gem itself.
Heavier even than the look on Joia's face when I handed her ring back—relief unguarded, gratitude offered because it was all she had. We didn't linger after that. Just quiet movement down the road. Low voices. Nods. People pointing us out for an act of kindness that didn't come with a ledger entry.
By the time the Friendly Arm Inn came into view, the chatter had thinned to something subdued.
My eyes drifted to Montaron. He'd already slipped back into habitual vigilance, one hand near his neck, the other restless at his side. The blood had dried dark at his collar. I remembered the looks he'd thrown my way earlier—quick, assessing glances at my pouch when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Not envy.
Calculation.
He caught me looking and scowled.
I reached down, felt the familiar weight at my belt, and made the decision before I could talk myself out of it.
"For what it's worth," I said, holding the diamond out between us, "the spar helped."
Montaron stared at it like it was a trick.
Suspicion crossed his face first. Then calculation. Gratitude never quite made it—got lost somewhere along the way. He hesitated just long enough to make it awkward.
"Hmph," he grunted at last. "Suppose this saves me the trouble."
He snatched the diamond from my hand and tucked it away with practiced ease, already turning as if the exchange meant nothing at all.
"Was considerin' liftin' it off you before we parted," he added over his shoulder. "Messy business. This is cleaner."
That was as close as he was going to get.
I watched him move a few steps ahead of us, posture settling back into wary readiness—and realized that, in his own way, he'd said thank you.
Just not with words.