They reached the south gate before the sun had fully risen.
The town was waking in slow, indifferent rhythms—doors opening, a cart creaking—but at the gate the air felt like held breath.
Figures gathered in the dim: black funnel-neck shirts, hair like spilled ink, and eyes that caught the weak light with a dangerous glow.
Some stood in small knots, speaking low. Others packed quietly, checking straps or comforting children.
Arthur paused for a moment, took Abigail's hand in a brief grip—only long enough to be felt—then stepped forward.
"Lord Arthur." Ronan, a broad-shouldered man with a broken ear, came up to him first.
He kept his voice low. "We've got twenty-five families ready.Kira found two more hiding near the port. Darven's scouts reported a patrol on the north road but nothing on the south. We can move." His words were steady; there was no bravado, only the hard practicality of someone used to making plans that needed to work.
Arthur scanned faces as they fell in.
He met Abigail's eyes, then Fazer's, concise nods exchanged like private promises. "Good," he said. "Ronan, take the search team. Kira, you and two others take intelligence. Darven — lead the scouts and keep the path clear. The weak go center. We stay tight. Move like one body."
They split in quick, silent motions.
No long speeches, no drama—only the economy of hands and eye contact.
Abigail fell in with the women carrying small bundles; she checked a strap, adjusted a cloth over a child's head.
Her movements were calm and exact.
Several of the older women—mothers and a few gray-haired aunts—murmured their thanks in short phrases.
She answered with curt nods, the kind that said she would hold her place.
Fazer walked near his father's elbow, trying to read everything in the way Arthur handled the small last-minute problems: a broken clasp here, a nervous child there.
He kept his stride even, watching how his father's voice moved across the group in short orders, how people responded without question.
Pride and a fresh ache sat together in his chest.
A voice from the street made them all look up.
A town guard, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, stepped forward with an open curiosity and a hint of official caution.
"Morning. What's this gathering? Orders from the magistrate?" His tone was more a habit than malice, but the question made heads turn.
Arthur raised his hand—one motion, calm. "We move for the fields," he said. "A work party. We leave early for the harvest."
The guard frowned. "At this hour?" He shifted, glancing between faces a moment longer than politeness required.
Abigail stepped up beside Arthur, a shawl slung over one arm and a small child tucked against her side. Her voice was steady. "Yes. We've got women who can't carry much in daylight. We go before the heat." She smiled, small and plain. "They'll be fine."
The guard hesitated, then let out a weary breath and stepped aside. "Alright. Keep the noise down." He moved on, unconcerned—town life had its own rules and didn't always read the same pages as the world beyond.
When the guard turned away, a collective exhale went through the group like wind.
Ronan clapped a broad hand on Arthur's shoulder, the gesture simple, a mark of solidarity. "We move," Ronan said.
They filed through the gate.
The first steps were small: careful, close to the stone. Abigail kept the children near her, checking their coats and passing out biscuits.
Kira adjusted a hood over a man's head who had just joined—someone from far away, whiskers flecked with gray—but his red eyes were unmistakable Fossa.
He bowed quick to Arthur and then joined the scout line without fuss.
Arthur walked at the front, with Darven a few paces ahead as pathfinder.
The scouts moved with soft, practiced feet, testing ground that looked harmless but could hide traps.
Fazer stayed a pace behind his parents, watching the scouts, feeling the shape of the movement like learning a new language.
At the edge of town, the road narrowed and grass took over the stones.
The sounds of Aetheria grew faint behind them.
Women hummed quiet songs to steady the children.
Men checked weapons with small, efficient motions—whetstone across blade, leather strap pulled tight.
No one laughed; that would have been noise out of place. Still, there were small exchanges—half sentences, nods—enough to stitch them tighter.
Half an hour into the walk, Darven stopped and turned back.
He indicated a fold of earth on the roadside. "Fresh tracks," he said. "Horse and boot. Not our people."
Arthur crouched once and inspected the soil, fingers pressing into impressions. "Which direction?" he asked.
Darven pointed east, toward the main road. "They skirted the village. Looking for movement." His voice was low but edged. He looked up at Arthur. "They'll be checking gates soon."
Abigail walked over with the small group of women.
Her face did not change, but she tightened the strap of a little boy's pack minutely, then met Arthur's eyes.
"We should move through the hedge line. Keep them out of sight," she said, quick and decisive. "Let the scouts widen the circle ahead."
Arthur's nod was the only answer he needed.
"Darven, shift your men. Ronan, pull the search team closer to the middle. Kira, double back on that east flank and see who's watching the road." He spoke and the group rearranged itself like a machine, smooth and practiced.
Fazer watched how decisions happened—fast, small, irreversible. He felt his pulse sharpen into attention.
They skirted the hedge the way Abigail suggested, the progress slower but safer.
The scouts moved out and returned in whispers.
A messenger slipped back with the report that a patrol had been seen and then moved on; the capital's watch might be alive in the region. It didn't change things—they had expected danger—but it made the air heavier.
As the sun climbed, the forest swallowed them.
Branches closed above; the path became softer underfoot.
Pregnant women breathed easier when the ground gave a little, when the dust settled.
Children began to drift into sleep against chests, lulled by the steady marching rhythm.
Fazer found a small quiet pocket near his parents and sat for a moment on a low root.
He took his whetstone from the side of his pack and rubbed the edge of a small knife—an old habit that steadied his hands.
Abigail glanced at him, then at Arthur, and for a fleeting instant they shared a look that needed no words: they were a family walking into the same storm, together.
Darven's voice came soft at last. "We've a day's head start." He turned to Arthur. "If they hunt us hard, they'll split their focus. If we keep moving, we might shake tails in the thick. The main thing is to get to the village and make it home quickly."
Arthur nodded, eyes forward. "Move steady. No rash steps. No unnecessary fights." He stared at the tree line like a man reading a map from memory. "This is only the start."
Fazer looked up into the canopy.
The leaves filtered the sun into small green lights.
He felt the weight of his father's expectation, the warmth of his mother's hand resting on his shoulder, and something like certainty settled under the fear. They had taken the first step.