They walked for five miles without speaking of what had happened.
The forest had grown thinner in places, older in others. The air felt heavier the farther they went, damp with something that hinted at water long before it could be seen. Sir. Wilkinson kept a steady pace at first, posture straight, steps measured as though the ground itself could be persuaded into obedience by discipline alone.
Roald tried to match him.
He did not complain.
That was what troubled Sir. Wilkinson most.
The boy's usual questions — curious, relentless — had dwindled to silence. His steps began to lag. Once or twice, Sir. Wilkinson slowed deliberately, pretending to examine a tree trunk or adjust the strap of his pack, allowing the boy to close the gap without drawing attention to it.
By the fourth mile, Roald's hand had begun drifting toward his midsection.
By the fifth, he was clutching it.
They had little left to eat. What provisions they once carried had been rationed with care, but care does not create food where none exists. Hunting would have required rest. Rest would have required safety. They had possessed neither.
"Nearly there," Sir. Wilkinson said at one point, though he had no proof of it.
Roald nodded, but the nod was small. His lips had gone pale.
The sound reached them before the sight.
A low, unending roar.
Not wind.
Not trees.
Something heavier.
When they broke through the last line of brush and stepped onto the rocky shore, the Rombichong River revealed itself in full.
It was not a river in the gentle sense of the word.
It was a moving horizon.
A mile-wide expanse of steel-gray water, churning and folding over itself in endless, muscular currents. The far bank was a faint smear in the distance. Near the center, what remained of a once-grand bridge stood in broken defiance — its middle span collapsed, its jagged ribs thrust upward like the bones of something long dead.
Mist hung over the surface. The water struck against boulders with a force that made the ground tremble beneath their boots.
Sir. Wilkinson stared.
He calculated distance. Speed of current. Temperature.
He calculated and recalculated.
He found no solution he trusted.
Behind him, there was a small sound.
Roald had dropped to his knees.
At first, Sir. Wilkinson thought the boy had stumbled. He turned with a quickness that cost him more energy than he admitted.
"Roald."
The boy's fingers were knotted in the fabric over his stomach. His face was scrunched tightly, eyes squeezed shut as though bracing against an unseen blow.
"I'm—" Roald began, and the word dissolved.
Sir. Wilkinson crossed the distance between them in two strides and crouched, ignoring the sharp protest of his own legs. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"We'll find something," he said. "This is temporary."
He did not know if that was true.
Roald tried to nod again. The effort seemed monumental. His body swayed.
And then, as simply as a candle snuffed between fingers, he tipped backward onto the stone.
The sound of his head striking rock was softer than Sir. Wilkinson feared, but it might as well have been thunder.
"Roald."
No response.
The boy lay on his back, arms slightly out to his sides, chest rising in shallow breaths. His face, stripped of tension, looked impossibly young.
Too young for rivers. Too young for broken bridges. Too young for promises of safety that could not be kept.
Sir. Wilkinson's throat tightened.
He had led him here.
He had insisted on pace. On progress. On reaching Dillaclor with haste.
He had calculated routes and risks and forgotten the simplest variable: hunger.
He shifted, meaning to lift the boy, to drag him to some semblance of shelter, but when he tried to stand, the world tilted.
The roar of the river grew louder, then distant, then loud again.
He had not eaten properly either.
He had not slept properly in days.
He had told himself discipline was enough.
It was not.
He made it halfway upright before his knees buckled.
He caught himself with one hand against the rock, breath coming sharp and shallow. His vision blurred at the edges. He forced himself to focus on the horizon, on the skeletal remains of the bridge, as though glaring at it might summon strength.
"This is unacceptable," he muttered, though whether to the river, to fate, or to himself was unclear.
He tried again.
The attempt lasted less than a second.
He fell beside Roald.
For a moment, he lay rigid, furious at his own body.
Then even that fury dimmed.
Above him, the sky stretched vast and indifferent. A pale sheet of gray-blue, untroubled by rivers or boys or failed calculations.
He turned his head slightly.
Roald was still breathing.
That was enough.
If this was the last sight he would have, he was glad the boy had not been alone.
The roar of the Rombichong River filled his ears.
Then the world receded.
Isobel had watched them for nearly an hour before they reached the shore.
She had kept to the treeline, silent as she always was, her steps placed with unconscious precision. She had expected tricks.
Feign weakness. Lure her closer. Reverse the balance again.
She had learned.
When the boy fell, she narrowed her eyes.
When the man followed, she did not move.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
The river thundered.
Neither of them rose.
Sir. Wilkinson made one final, pitiful attempt to stand.
Then nothing.
Stillness settled around them — unnatural against the violence of the water.
Isobel exhaled slowly.
This was no act.
She stepped from the forest.
The rocks were slick beneath her boots, but she moved across them with ease. Up close, the scene was smaller than it had appeared from the trees.
The strategist lay flat on his back, eyes closed, one hand still half-curled as though gripping an invisible plan.
The boy looked impossibly fragile.
She crouched beside Roald first.
His pulse was weak but steady.
Starvation. Exhaustion.
Foolish.
She shifted to the man. His breathing was deeper, uneven.
He would wake angry.
She studied his face for a moment.
There was no calculation in it now.
Only weariness.
Without ceremony, she slid her arms beneath the boy and lifted him. He was light. Lighter than he should have been.
She carried him toward the forest.
Then she returned for the other.
Sir. Wilkinson was heavier, but not beyond her strength. She hoisted him with a practiced motion, adjusting his weight across her shoulders.
The river roared behind her as she disappeared into the trees.
It did not care who crossed it.
Or who did not.