Night did not bring rest.
It brought accounting.
Aarinen lay on his side near the edge of the camp, wrapped in fresh bandages that already darkened with blood. The fire burned low, reduced to coals to avoid drawing attention. Around him, Kael's people moved in quiet rotations—watch shifts changing without raised voices, weapons checked, wounds cleaned.
Every sound reached him.
The crackle of wood.The wet rasp of breath from the wounded man nearby.The distant call of some night creature, unanswered.
Pain had no rhythm now.
It did not rise and fall with symbolism or timing. It simply existed, persistent and intrusive. Every time Aarinen drifted toward sleep, it pulled him back.
So he watched.
He watched Kael argue quietly with a scarred man over supply distribution. He watched two younger fighters sit back to back, eyes scanning opposite arcs of darkness. He watched the wounded attacker they had captured earlier lie bound near a tree, breathing shallowly, eyes open.
That last one held his attention.
The man had not begged.
Not yet.
Aarinen pushed himself upright with a grimace and limped toward him. The guard watching the prisoner stiffened but did not stop him.
The man's eyes flicked up as Aarinen approached.
Recognition sparked there.
Not awe.
Fear.
"You're quieter than they said," the man muttered.
Aarinen crouched with difficulty, resting his forearms on his knees.
"They said many things," he replied.
The man swallowed.
"You killed Reth," he said. "He was good."
"Yes."
"You didn't laugh," the man added, confusion edging his voice.
Aarinen tilted his head.
"No."
Silence stretched between them.
"Who hired you?" Aarinen asked.
The man hesitated.
"I don't know names," he said. "Just marks."
"Who described me?" Aarinen pressed.
The man licked his lips.
"They said you were unstable," he said. "That pain made you unpredictable. Dangerous."
"And now?" Aarinen asked.
The man's gaze dropped.
"Now," he said, "you're worse."
Aarinen exhaled slowly.
"Why?"
"Because you're trying," the man said. "You hesitate. You look. You choose."
He looked up again.
"That makes you human," he finished. "And humans can be reasoned with."
Aarinen stood, joints protesting.
"That's not comfort," he said.
"No," the man agreed. "It's leverage."
Aarinen turned away.
Kael was waiting for him near the fire.
"You shouldn't interrogate prisoners alone," she said.
"I wasn't interrogating," Aarinen replied. "I was listening."
She nodded slightly.
"Did you learn anything useful?"
"Yes," Aarinen said. "People think I'm more dangerous now."
Kael smiled thinly.
"That tracks."
She gestured for him to sit. He lowered himself heavily onto a log, biting back a groan.
"You're slowing us down," she said bluntly.
"Yes."
"But you're also drawing attention away from our usual routes," she continued. "Which is useful."
"That sounds temporary," Aarinen said.
"It is," Kael replied. "Everything useful is."
She studied him for a moment.
"Why don't you run?" she asked.
Aarinen frowned.
"I am," he said.
Kael shook her head.
"No," she said. "You're staying. You could have vanished after the fight. Instead, you're here, bleeding near my fire."
Aarinen considered.
"Because running alone ends one way," he said. "And I'd like to see if there's another."
Kael leaned back, arms crossed.
"Fair," she said.
Silence settled again.
The night deepened.
Hours later, when the camp slept in shifts and the wounded man's breathing grew uneven, Aarinen felt it—a subtle change in the air. Not pursuit. Not violence.
Approach.
He stiffened.
Kael felt it too. She rose silently, signaling others.
A figure stepped into the edge of firelight.
Unarmed.
Hood down.
A woman, young but tired, her clothes plain, her hands empty and visible.
"I'm not here to fight," she said quickly.
Kael did not lower her blade.
"Then talk fast," she said.
The woman swallowed.
"My name is Elian," she said. "I carry messages."
"From who?" Kael asked.
Elian's gaze flicked to Aarinen.
"From someone who says they interrupted your laughter," she said.
Aarinen's heart clenched.
"Ishar," he said.
Elian nodded.
"He said you would recognize the name," she replied.
Kael's eyes narrowed.
"What does he want?" she demanded.
Elian hesitated.
"To warn him," she said, nodding toward Aarinen. "And to offer a direction."
Aarinen stepped forward, ignoring the spike of pain.
"Warn me about what?" he asked.
Elian took a breath.
"About the Concord of Threads," she said. "And about what happens when they decide an anomaly has exceeded acceptable disruption."
Kael stiffened.
"I've heard that name," she said quietly. "I thought it was a myth."
Elian shook her head.
"They're very real," she said. "And they're moving."
Aarinen felt the weight of it settle in his chest.
"What direction?" he asked.
Elian met his gaze.
"North," she said. "Toward the cities that believe order is sacred."
Kael barked a laugh.
"That's suicide."
Elian shrugged.
"So is staying still," she said.
Aarinen closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
Stillness was the one thing he could no longer afford.
He opened them again.
"Tell Ishar I heard him," he said. "And that I'm still walking."
Elian nodded, relief flashing across her face.
"I will," she said.
She turned to leave, then paused.
"He said something else," she added.
"Yes?"
"He said," Elian continued carefully, "'When the laughter returns, it won't belong to him anymore.'"
Aarinen felt a chill unrelated to the night air.
Elian disappeared into the darkness as quietly as she had come.
Kael watched her go, then turned to Aarinen.
"You attract very unpleasant structures," she said.
"Yes."
She studied him.
"You can stay with us," she said slowly. "For now. But understand this—where you're going, people don't trade in mercy."
Aarinen nodded.
"I'm done expecting it," he said.
The fire crackled softly.
Above them, the stars burned indifferent and sharp.
Aarinen lay back down, pain anchoring him to the moment.
He did not sleep.
But for the first time since Merrowen, he felt something else settle beside the pain.
Direction.
And that, somehow, was heavier than fear.