The first few hours after the escape were the hardest.
The icy mountain air instantly chilled the sewage-soaked rags they wore, turning their skin blue and their muscles rigid. Aris ignored the relentless shivering and focused only on the Ghost Pace—a silent, rapid walk designed to conserve energy while covering maximum distance.
Doran, however, was in a crisis. The shock of the escape, the smell of the muck, and the exposure to the elements broke his iron-willed obedience. He stumbled frequently, gagging from residual filth, and struggled to keep up.
"Aris," Doran whispered, teeth chattering violently. "I can't... I can't feel my toes. We need fire."
"Fire draws patrols," Aris replied, his voice a low, steady drone that cut through the silence. "Focus on the pain, Doran. It keeps you alert. We move."
He knew they were losing precious time. The logistics wagons carrying Mira and Tova had a head start and were moving on main roads. Aris and Doran were traversing dense, uneven forest to avoid the Northwatch military patrols.
They walked until the first pale light of dawn broke through the pines. Aris finally allowed them to stop in the shelter of a massive, snow-dusted rock outcropping.
"Forage," Aris commanded, pulling pine needles and moss into a shallow depression. "Doran, find us a weapon."
Doran, though exhausted, immediately got to work, recognizing the tone of authority that had preserved them in the mines. He found a sturdy, thick branch, roughly the length of the original pike shaft.
While Doran worked, Aris used the sharp point of his spearhead to dig for edible roots and stripped the bark from a young birch tree. Survival was a calculation, and they had just expended thousands of calories.
"I need your fire now, Doran," Aris said, rubbing two pieces of flint he'd brought from the mine together, creating a small spark that landed on the dry tinder.
Doran stared. "I thought you said fire draws patrols."
"In the dead of night, yes," Aris said, blowing gently on the spark. "At dawn, with fog cover and deep in the pines, the smoke will dissipate. Risk assessment changes with the conditions."
He carefully fed the fire. It wasn't a fire for warmth, but a fire for purification. Aris boiled water in a scavenged metal cup, sterilizing the roots and the spearheads, which were still slick with sewage.
"We clean everything," Aris ordered, using the boiled water to strip the grime from their skin and weapons. "Filth kills faster than a sword."
Over the next two days, the forced march became their new training ground.
Aris, relying on his fragmented knowledge of long-distance trekking and military discipline, forced a relentless pace. He used the terrain to his advantage, teaching Doran to read the signs of the forest, identify edible plants, and, most importantly, hide their tracks.
Their survival relied on the small, interwoven good moments of shared effort and increasing skill.
"You're learning, Doran," Aris observed on the third day as they neared the foothills, their bodies bruised but strong.
"I'm learning to follow orders, Aris," Doran said, rubbing his hands over the pike shaft. "You're the one who learned to walk without a sound. You move like a ghost now."
"We needed the contrast," Aris said, nodding toward the pike. "They will see you. They will try to stop you. I will be the one they don't see."
Doran was the immovable Shield; Aris was the Unseen Blade.
By the fourth dawn, they reached the crest of a ridge overlooking the valley below. The air smelled different here—less of pine, more of woodsmoke and a faint, coppery scent Aris immediately recognized.
It was the smell of iron and blood.
Below them, the terrain flattened into rolling fields bisected by two major river roads that crossed at a desolate, strategic point. This was the Thornwood Crossroads.
But there was no crossroads visible. The area was a vast, chaotic scene of military deployment.
Westvale forces, easily identifiable by their polished steel and mounted cavalry lines, were advancing methodically. They had not expected heavy resistance, having relied on political betrayal.
However, they were stalled.
A massive, hastily erected barricade of wagons, timber, and dirt separated the two forces. Behind that barricade, Aris saw the meager forces of the Northwatch rear support—mostly older men, logistics workers, and, heartbreakingly, the Rear Support Corps.
"They're there," Doran whispered, pointing to a huddle of figures behind a row of overturned supply wagons. They were frantically moving boxes and digging small trenches. "Mira and Tova are down there."
The Northwatch Marshal had done exactly what the guards predicted: used the supply chain as a cheap, expendable buffer. The Rear Support Corps was now the fragile front line.
The air was tense, waiting for the inevitable charge. Aris could see a large group of Westvale heavy cavalry forming up for a breach—the decisive blow that would scatter the Northwatch defense and send them pouring into the mountain passes.
The fate of the battle, and the lives of Aris's friends, hung on that small, desperate line of wagons.
"We go down now," Aris said, grabbing his short spear. "Doran, you keep the pike ready. When we hit the perimeter, we do not stop. We move to the center."
"But, Aris, how do we get past the Westvale scouts?" Doran asked, looking at the exposed hillside.
"We don't go past them," Aris stated, his gaze fixed on the enemy formation. "We hit them. We create the distraction."
He looked at the pike head Doran was holding, then at his own spear. Two slave boys with rusty tools, about to charge an army.
"We use the chaos of the coming battle to hide our movement," Aris explained. "The war wants blood. We will give them a taste, just enough to open a door."