Gabriel eased back from the edge and moved along the ridge until the quarry dropped out of view. He did not descend right away. He studied the road instead, the way the terrain narrowed movement and forced travellers toward a single bend.
A checkpoint sat there.
Two guards flanked a small table. A ledger lay open. A Church clerk in grey robes sat behind it, writing without lifting his head. Workers returning from supply runs stopped, spoke briefly, and were waved through.
That meant records.
Records meant names.
Either the apprentice existed on a page somewhere, or he had been removed from it.
Both led to the same place.
Gabriel tightened his cloak and began his descent.
He moved carefully, using broken stone and sparse trees for cover. His footing followed the same habits he had used in the gorge. He did not rush. A fall here would not kill him, but it would be heard.
At the tree line, he stopped and listened.
Wind off the river. Lift chains. The distant strike of tools.
