She died. Harsk closed her eyes. He moved on.
The third courier heard the approach. The man — a veteran, fifty years old, grey-bearded — was standing at a trail junction consulting a map when his head came up sharply. His response was immediate and trained, nothing like the gradual awareness that the boy or the woman had shown — the reaction of someone who had survived decades by trusting the prickle at the back of his neck.
He dropped the map. Drew his sword. Turned in a circle, scanning every direction, his stance low and balanced, his blade positioned for a defensive cut.
"I know you're there," he said. His voice was steady. Fifty years of not dying had given him the luxury of calm. "Come out."
Harsk was four meters away. Behind a fallen log. The fog was thinning — morning light burning it off, reducing the concealment that had covered his first two kills. The veteran was positioned at the center of the trail junction, with clear sightlines in four directions. No blind spots.
