The convoy moved carefully along the narrow dirt path that curved through the Northern frontier, wheels creaking beneath the weight of what little remained of their supplies.
Ren Harven walked ahead of them, his coat fluttering lightly behind him, one hand gripping the strap of his satchel, the other wrapped around the small brass compass he always carried. The compass had been Wolf's gift, back when the two of them were still cadets — before war had turned their laughter into whispers and their oaths into graves.
He was not a soldier.
Never had been.
Ren's mind was his weapon. He mapped enemy routes, intercepted communications, and predicted troop movements with frightening precision. Noah had often said that if the North had ten men like Ren Harven, they could end the war in a week. But here, among the cracked earth and the burning scent of old mana traps, intellect meant little.
And yet, Ren stayed.
