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Ignoring Maelric, I step past him, over a fallen branch, the forest floor damp and soft beneath my feet. My bare feet. I’d almost forgotten how cold they were until now.

The first enforcer I reach is a woman, maybe a few years older than me, sprawled on her side. Her gloved hand lies open beside her, fingers slack, a dagger resting inches away. I hesitate, breath catching in my throat, then reach out and close my fingers around the hilt. It’s lighter than I expect. I slide it into my belt.

Her pouch is small but heavy—I unfasten it with quick, fumbling fingers and tie it to my own, trying not to think too hard about it. Just things. Just tools. Just survival.

Then I pause.

My gaze flicks down from the pouch to her boots. Sturdy. Well-worn. My eyes travel from her feet to mine—filthy, blood-smeared, scraped raw from days of walking without shoes. I’d lost mine fleeing the estate. I hadn’t stopped moving since.

She’s about my size.

I bite down hard on the taste rising in my throat and reach for her laces.

The leather is stiff, stained dark, but they fit. Not perfectly, but close enough. The warmth of them feels wrong—someone else’s—but necessary. I don’t let myself hesitate.

Across the clearing, Roan crouches beside another enforcer, her expression grim. She moves with purpose, tugging a purse of gold from his belt, then rifling through his coat pockets in quick, practiced motions. There’s nothing mercenary in her face—no satisfaction, no cruelty. Just the cold efficiency of someone who’s had to do this before. Who knows what survival costs.

“Anything useful?” I ask.

She tucks the purse into her coat. “Coin. A couple of knives. Some flint.” She nudges one of the fallen men with the toe of her boot. He groans in response, face pale. “Nothing else worth carrying.”

We don’t bother with anything more. No sense in weighing ourselves down.

Roan steps back, surveying the unconscious enforcers one last time before her gaze flicks to mine. We need to move.

We’re not out of this yet.

Within moments, we’re on the move, slipping away from the bodies and into the cover of thicker trees, back toward camp. The scent of blood follow us. Roan’s wounded. That gash on her arm could get infected if we don’t clean it soon.

The sound of rushing water reaches my ears before I spot it—our narrow stream, winding in a gentle curve through moss-covered stones. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.

I glance at Roan. She’s favoring her injured arm, her movements a little stiffer than usual, but she doesn’t complain. I don’t think she ever does.

“Sit,” I murmur, nodding toward a fallen log near the edge of the bank. “Just for a moment. Otherwise, they’ll wake and follow your scent.”

She hesitates, scanning the area for threats before finally lowering herself onto the rough bark. Even injured, she keeps her sword within reach, her eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. Always ready. Always on edge.

I kneel beside her, reaching for the scrap of cloth she’s been pressing to her arm. “Can I see?”

“It's only a scratch,” she grumbles, but she doesn’t stop me when I peel the fabric away.

The wound is shallow but jagged, blood seeping sluggishly from the torn skin. The edges are raw and inflamed. My stomach tightens. This is my fault. If not for me, she wouldn’t have had to fight those enforcers.

I dip a strip of cloth into the stream, the cold stinging my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice catching in my throat.

Roan watches me, dark eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to be,” she mutters, but there’s a flicker of tension at the corner of her mouth, betraying the pain she won’t acknowledge.

Carefully, I press the damp cloth to her wound. She hisses between her teeth, her whole body flinching.

“Oh, for—Roan, hold still,” I chide, biting back a smirk.

She exhales sharply. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

I arch a brow. “Oh yes, inflicting pain is my new favorite pastime.”

She grunts, but the corner of her mouth twitches—just slightly. The sight of it makes something warm settle low in my stomach.

We fall into a silence thick with something unspoken as I clean the wound, my fingers careful, precise. Too careful, maybe. She’s warm beneath my touch, her skin fever-hot where my knuckles brush against hers.