Unbabe pushed through the wet brush of Outpeak, tracking the warlord who had burned his clan to ash. His boots sank in cold mud. River Wanderer walked close behind, her small fluffy dog trotting at her heels. The trail had gone cold for weeks. He would not stop until it ran warm again. They came upon a dark cottage smothered in vines. The windows glowed faint, like something inside still breathed. River Wanderer stepped forward and hissed, lifting her boot. A jagged shard had cut her sole. She knelt. A broken horn lay in the dirt, shimmering blue and gold even in the gloom. Beside it, half-buried in leaves, sat a folded scrap of paper. She picked it up with careful fingers. Her dog sniffed the horn and whined. "Unbabe," she whispered. "Look." Two place names were written in shaky ink, the second smeared with a dark thumbprint. Blood, dried brown. He took the paper. The door of the cottage hung open a crack. Inside, slumped against a heavy stone hearth, a man lay folded over himself. Unbabe crossed the room in three strides and dropped to one knee. The stranger's eyes flickered open. His lips moved. "He rides for—" A wet cough cut him short. His head fell sideways. Gone. Unbabe stared at the paper in his fist. Two locations. One name finished, one swallowed by a dead man's throat. He stood slowly. "We split the difference," he said. "We pick one. And we ride."

Unbabe stepped back from the dead man and saw it through the open door. A bright red trail curved through the wet leaves outside, looping wide and bending back toward the cottage. Boot prints pressed deep into the mud beside it. The killers had not gone far. They were circling. "They're coming back," he said. River Wanderer scooped up her dog and froze. Unbabe shoved the bloody note into his coat. He counted breaths. Two horses waited at the tree line. The red trail thickened by the second window. Close. Too close. He pushed her toward the back door. They ran. His hip struck the table. The small knife his mother had given him as a boy clattered from his belt and spun across the floor. He turned, half a step back. A man's shout rose from the front path. Unbabe left the knife where it fell and ran. They reached the horses and swung up hard. Unbabe kicked his mount into the brush. Branches tore his sleeves. Behind them, voices barked through the cottage. He rode without looking back, the dog tucked against River Wanderer's chest. The ground climbed. Stones broke under hoof. The tall, sharp peaks rose ahead like teeth, gray and endless, marking the only road left to them. They pushed into the narrow pass and did not stop until the cottage was gone from sight. Unbabe pulled up at last, breathing hard. He had the note. He had his life. He did not have the knife. He stared at the empty sheath on his belt and said nothing. Then he turned his horse toward the one name still legible on the paper, and rode on.