Oswin Tunnelway's Arc

Chapter 2 of 10

The road split where the barricade began. Oswin stopped when he saw it — wooden crates stacked chest-high across the cracked pavement, each one marked with faded red stamps. Someone ahead whispered about supplies, wondered if they could use what was inside. Foxface reached the barricade first and touched one of the flyers nailed to a makeshift log wall behind the crates. Her ears flattened. "Disease control," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "These crates were locked here on purpose. To keep people out." The group went quiet. Oswin stepped forward, his leg burning, and studied the flyers — quarantine notices layered over older ones, dates spanning years. The stamps on the crates matched the symbols on the papers. Someone had sealed supplies here during an outbreak, probably The Red, and never came back for them. Caius moved beside him, voice low. "We could go around. Find another route." But Oswin shook his head. The barricade told him something the flyers couldn't — that others had tried to reach the ruins before them, that they'd been sick enough to need quarantine, and that they'd failed. He looked at the sealed crates, then at his travel bag where the salve jar waited, half empty. "We go through," he said. "If they got this far while infected, we can get farther." He didn't say the rest — that seeing proof of others who'd tried and failed made his own attempt feel less like certain death and more like a path someone else had started. Caius studied his face for a long moment, then nodded and called the group forward. Oswin watched them climb over the barricade one by one, and for the first time since the scratch, he felt something other than fear. He felt like he wasn't the only one who'd ever walked this road. But when Foxface turned back to help him over, she noticed his limp. "You're favoring that leg," she said, not asking. The others stopped climbing, waiting. Oswin felt Caius's eyes on him from the other side of the barricade. He could lie, blame it on the night march, on old injuries. Instead, he looked at the quarantine flyers again — all those warnings from people who'd kept secrets until it was too late. "Blister," he said finally, meeting Foxface's gaze. "Bad one. I'll wrap it when we stop." She accepted this with a nod and offered her paw. He took it and climbed over, the lie sitting heavy in his chest. The scratch burned against the fabric of his pack, and he knew he'd just chosen his path. He would keep the worst of the truth hidden, but he wouldn't pretend he was untouched anymore. Small admissions to buy time. It wasn't honesty, but it wasn't silence either. Caius fell into step beside him as they left the barricade behind, and Oswin felt the weight of that middle ground — the space between the note in his bag and the moment someone would need to read it. An hour past the barricade, Foxface called for a rest. Oswin sat against a piece of rubble and pulled out his travel bag, aware of her watching. He removed the salve jar and a clean cloth strip, then made a show of unwrapping his good foot. The blister he painted there was real enough — a small one from the night march. He treated it carefully while Foxface nodded with approval and turned away to distribute water. Caius crouched beside him, silent, and Oswin met his eyes. They both knew which leg carried the real wound. But Caius didn't challenge the performance. Instead, he handed