Arthur moved through the dark streets with the same quiet purpose he carried into meetings—no wasted steps, no idle talk.
He kept his hood low until the house came into view. The porch light burned a small circle; Abigail's shadow was there, a movement at the window.
He paused only long enough to steady himself, then crossed the threshold.
They didn't greet like strangers.
Abigail met him in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, face taut.
Fazer stood by the table with a small pack already slung over one shoulder, trying for a brave look that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You're back," Abigail said. It wasn't a question.
"I am," Arthur answered.
He set the cloak on a peg, then unclipped the leather pouch at his belt and placed it on the table.
"They'll move at dawn. The clan is ready." His voice was flat, but the word ready carried weight.
Abigail picked up the pouch, fingers testing its weight without opening it. "You gave the instructions?" she asked.
Arthur nodded. "Three groups. Search, intelligence, scouts. We protect the weak in the middle. Pregnant women and children walk in the center while the strong clear the road." He looked at Fazer. "I explained why you must learn."
Fazer tightened the strap on his pack and looked up. "Will there be—people? From other places?" His voice wavered on the last word.
"Some will come back," Arthur said. "Some may not. We bring who we find." He reached out and straightened the collar of Fazer's shirt, a light, practiced motion. "Come here."
Abigail folded the scarf she'd been knitting and held it out. "Put this on," she said. There was a quickness in her hands, an urgency that softened the edges of her anger. She tied it at his neck in a neat double knot, the movement simple, intimate. "If nothing else," she added, "let it be warm."
Fazer's fingers lingered on the fabric. "Will you come with us?" he asked.
Abigail's eyes met Arthur's. For a moment she didn't answer. Then: "Yes." The word was small but firm. "If he goes, I go. I would rather be angry at you than lose him because I stayed home."
Arthur didn't smile. He tucked a short blade into the inside of his coat and checked its sheath. "We leave together. But remember—tonight, stay inside. I need to move without your shadow on me. The clan must speak freely."
She pressed a hand against his forearm. "Speak freely," she echoed, but her hand didn't let go. "And come back to us."
Arthur bent and kissed Fazer's brow—quick, private. "Learn fast," he said, the same words he used like a promise. "Watch, listen, and obey Abigail. Don't take risks for pride."
Fazer's chin lifted. "I won't."
Abigail reached out and smoothed the pack at his back. Her fingers found the small whetstone he'd wrapped in cloth and tucked it deeper into the side pocket. "Don't let the cold wind get in, and don't try to be brave for me. Be clever."
He nodded again. The light in his eyes had a hard shine—part fear, part readiness.
Arthur moved through the room checking small things: a strap, a blade, a lantern. He moved without fuss, but whenever his hand rested on something—a knife, a rope—there was a mind behind the action that had already counted possibilities and consequences.
"Tell me again where we meet," Abigail said, voice softening.
"South gate," Arthur replied. "Five hundred meters out. The mark on the old stone. By first light." He paused. "Do not wander near the market at dawn. Too many eyes."
Abigail listened and then, after a moment, watched the fork of shadow where his jaw met his throat. "You could have told me sooner," she said, not really blaming him now so much as stating a grief. "I would have prepared differently."
Arthur's answer came quiet. "I didn't want to draw eyes. Some things you decide alone so others sleep."
She let out a breath that had no heat in it. "Then don't do it alone next time."
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
There was time for one more thing.
Abigail picked up a small wooden box from the shelf, opened it, and handed him a scrap of paper folded twice.
On it, she had written a few names and directions—old friends, safe houses, the route she'd heard whispered at the market.
"If anything breaks wrong," she said, "start here." Her voice was steady. No pleading. Just a plan.
Arthur took the paper, sliding it into the leather pouch.
He looked at her, and whatever fury had been between them softened into something quieter—shared responsibility, perhaps, or the dull acceptance of what had to be done.
Outside, the first thin edge of dawn began to press at the sky.
The town was still, not yet awake.
The three of them moved through the house in the ease of people who had done this before and hoped not to do it again.
Abigail picked up a small satchel and added half a loaf of bread, two apples, and a small jar of salted meat.
She set the satchel beside Fazer's pack. "Eat on the way if you must," she said. "Don't waste it."
Fazer sat on the step, tugging his boots tighter.
He laced them with care and then stood, testing his balance.
For the first time that morning he smiled, a quick flash.
"I'll come back with more than stories," he said, half to himself, half to his parents.
Arthur looked at him long enough that the boy felt measured, then gave a short nod. "That's the right answer."
Abigail collected the shawl she'd knitted and draped it over her shoulders.
She left the house's warmth and took a breath of the cool dawn air, the cold making her eyes clear.
She stood between father and son for a heartbeat, hands slack at her sides, then reached out and squeezed Fazer's shoulder—no words, only the hold of skin on skin that carried everything a sentence could not.
They stepped outside together. The household door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.
Beyond the gate, faint shadows moved—figures gathering, cloaks and funnel-neck shirts dark against the morning.
Somewhere, a low murmur rose and then fell like wind.
The path ahead was not neat.
It would be cold, and muddy, and full of decisions they could not take back.
Arthur led the way.
Abigail kept pace on his left, steady as a rock.
Fazer walked on his right, matching his father's stride as best he could, eyes bright, breath visible in the chill.
They moved toward the south gate where the clan would meet.
Each step was precise. No spectacle, no show. Just three people walking where the world had already decided to test them.