Lucas straightened fully and gestured toward the scout with a calm flick of his fingers. "Clean yourself up," he said, his eyes sweeping over the dirt, the dirty sleeve, the signs of struggle that would raise too many questions if left as they were. "You are not returning to them as a captive who escaped. You are returning as a scout who completed his duty."
The young man hesitated only briefly before nodding, wiping at his face and smearing away the tracks of tears with the back of his sleeve, his movements clumsy but urgent. Lucas watched him closely, already calculating how the enemy's officers would read the smallest detail of posture and expression, already adjusting the lie until it fit so well it would pass unquestioned.
"When they ask you for reports," Lucas continued, his voice steady and precise, "you will say you observed a Squad of twelve moving ahead of the main force. You will say they are disciplined, cautious, and led by a commander who is wounded but still active."
