The fire had burned down to embers when the sound of quiet footsteps and the soft jingle of harnesses approached the hut. Dawn was still a faint, grey promise in the sky.
Jorgen pushed the door open, his bulk a silhouette against the pre-dawn gloom. "Sled's here. Can you walk?"
Leo, who had managed a few hours of fitful sleep, pushed himself up. The deep, systemic ache remained, a constant reminder of his depleted state, but the sharpest pains had receded into a dull, manageable throb. "I can walk," he said, his voice still rough.
Mira was already packed, her movements efficient and silent. She handed Leo a strip of dried meat. "Eat. You need the energy."
He chewed the tough jerky, the simple act feeling like a small victory. Jorgen watched him, his eyes missing nothing.
"Don't expect a luxury coach," the big hunter grunted. "It's a cargo sled. You'll be riding with timber and frozen supplies. But it's warm, and it's anonymous."
They followed him out of the hut. The cold was a physical slap, so sharp it made Leo's lungs ache. A large, enclosed sled, hitched to two shaggy, patient-looking draft horses, stood waiting. A grizzled man with a thick woolen hat pulled low over his eyes sat in the driver's seat, giving Jorgen a slow, deliberate nod.
Jorgen went to the back of the sled and unlatched a set of double doors. The interior was dark and smelled of pine resin and cold earth. It was packed with rough-sawn logs and burlap sacks, but there was a cleared space near the front, just behind the driver's bench.
"In you go," Jorgen said.
Mira climbed in first, settling onto a sack that felt like it was full of grain. Leo followed, moving stiffly, his body protesting every movement. The space was cramped, but it was out of the wind.
Jorgen leaned in, his face serious. "The driver's name is Hal. He doesn't talk much, and he doesn't ask questions. He'll drop you at Pine Mill. From there, the southbound train comes through at midday. Keep your heads down. Don't draw attention."
He started to close the doors, then paused, his eyes locking with Leo's in the dim light. "Build the arm, kid."
Then the doors swung shut, plunging them into near-total darkness. A moment later, they heard the thud of a latch being secured from the outside. The sled lurched into motion with a creak of wood and a jingle of harnesses.
The world outside became a muffled rumble of wheels on frozen ground and the steady, rhythmic clop of the horses' hooves. A sliver of grey light seeped in through a crack in the door, illuminating dust motes dancing in the cold air.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The events of the previous day hung between them, a shared nightmare too fresh to discuss. Leo leaned his head back against a log, feeling the vibrations of the journey travel through his bones. It was a strange feeling, to be moving, to be escaping, yet to feel so completely trapped by the secret he carried.
"You think he believed you?" Mira finally whispered, her voice barely audible over the rumble. "About the relic?"
Leo considered it. "No. Not really. But I think he meant what he said about not turning us in. He's... pragmatic."
"Or he has his own reasons," Mira countered, ever the skeptic. "Maybe he wants to see what the relic can do. Maybe he's planning to take it for himself later."
The thought had occurred to Leo, a fresh layer of paranoia on top of everything else. "Maybe. But right now, he's our best chance of getting home without the Association interrogating us."
They fell silent again. The sled rocked gently. Leo found his mind drifting, not to the terrifying face of the Warden, but to the feeling of the Spirit Gun forming at his fingertip. The sheer, explosive power of it. The confidence. The freedom. For one hour, he hadn't been Leo the Blank. He had been a hero.
"The connection is deepening."
The voice was a splash of cold water on his nostalgic thoughts. The power wasn't freedom; it was a gilded cage. A deeper connection meant less of him, and more of... whatever the ring was.
"He was right, you know," Mira said softly, as if reading his thoughts. "Jorgen. About building the arm."
"I know," Leo sighed, flexing his bandaged hand. The pain was a dull, grounding throb. "But how? I was training. I got my mana to 3.0. I thought that was progress. Then that... thing... showed me how pathetic that really is."
"3.0 is good, Leo," Mira insisted. "For you, for where you started, it's incredible. But maybe... maybe you're training the wrong thing."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," she admitted, frustration in her voice. "I'm not a hunter. But it seems like you're trying to fill a cup with a thimble. Your body, your own mana... it's the cup. The ring is a waterfall. You're trying to catch the waterfall in the cup, and it just shatters. Maybe... maybe you need to focus on making the cup stronger. Bigger. Not just on pouring more water into it."
Leo stared at her through the darkness, struck by the simplicity of her metaphor. He'd been so focused on increasing his mana number, on the quantitative gain, that he'd never considered the qualitative aspect. His body's ability to handle power. His "vessel integrity."
"You might be onto something," he murmured.
"Of course I am," she said, and he could hear the slight smile in her voice. "I'm the logistics manager, remember?"
A faint warmth, unrelated to the stuffy air in the sled, spread through his chest. He was beyond lucky to have her. He'd almost gotten her killed, revealed his world-shattering secret, and she was still here, still trying to solve his problems with him.
The sled hit a particularly deep rut, jolting them both. Leo grunted as his bruised ribs protested.
"You okay?" Mira asked, her hand finding his arm in the dark.
"Yeah," he said, and for the first time since the fight, he almost meant it. "Just... sore."
"Good," she said, her grip tightening slightly. "Sore means you're alive. Remember that."