Rugr urged the horse forward with a sharp crack of the reins and a quick jab from his boots, leaving the wagon—and Kleo—behind. He kept the horse at a brisk pace for the first mile before easing down into a steady trot.

  Heading straight for Balta was out of the question. He’d return to the wagon once Kleo had time to get the boy well on their way to wherever they were heading. The consequences of someone discovering the remains were too dire. No odds were good enough for Rugr’s liking, even at a million-to-one chance.

  The situation had unraveled quickly. Damn that girl. Why hadn’t she told him? They could have dealt with whatever was troubling her once the cargo was in the hands of the ship’s captain. It was clear she didn’t think going to Balta was the right course. She was perceptive, and now he couldn’t stop wondering what she saw—the nagging question was in the back of his mind, prickling at him.

  And the more he thought about it, the more confident he became that he wouldn’t like the answer.

  She communicated with him using signs. He had taught her himself, and together, they had developed a language for situations that required secrecy. She was often forbidden from speaking—forced to communicate with fingers, eyes, and ears. As a result, her fluency surpassed his, causing him to improve his abilities to match.

  Her messages were brief, and her fingers moved with fluid, natural motions. It was unlikely the man would have noticed anything.

  Be Prepared.

  She repeated this straightforward message over and over. The message puzzled Rugr; she knew he was always prepared. Still, he kept a close, wary eye on the boy, assuming this was the subject of her concern.

  Rugr felt sure he had a good read on the boy, simple and harmless. But he watched with care, looking for anything that Kleo might have picked up that he had missed. The thought rankled him. He was not one to miss anything.

  As they tended to the horse after the wagon "accident,” she had signed, "Trust me." Then, as he prepared to ride out, she emphasized the message.

  There was no doubt of trust between him, so he knew the message meant more—something like "Think, old man, think.”

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  The road would be long, so he had time. He’d turn the puzzle over in his mind, find the missing pieces, and decide how to deal with it. He always did.

  It might be her Kadas Shadoom.

  The thought gave him pause. His own Kadas Shadoom was still vivid in his memory, even after all these years. It had driven him to extremes he’d rather not recall. The shudder in his chest reminded him that some memories never truly fade. He didn’t envy her but hoped her path was less complicated than his.

  That hope was as close to prayer as Rugr was willing to go. The gods and fates had long since abandoned his kind, and if he ever got the chance, he’d consign their remains to a box—like the one in the back of the wagon—sending them to the nether where they could rot for eternity.

  Astiria had been a refuge, but not without cost. Fewer than six hundred survivors had escaped to its sanctuary. In complete isolation, they’d healed what wounds they could and built new lives. New generations were born, untethered from the horrors of the past. Most had found peace, but not Rugr. He waited, biding his time as the years turned into decades, then centuries. He wasn’t alone; others remembered the Sa Kamal. Others counted the days until their people had regained the strength to reclaim their homeworld.

  Not all shared his resolve. Many buried the shame of their betrayal when they turned their backs on their land to hide in Astiria. They’d been weary, broken, and facing extinction. He didn’t begrudge them their survival, but some small part of him would always regret not dying in the land of his birth.

  The horse plodded on, the rhythm steady and hypnotic, giving him room to focus. Astiria prided itself on harmony, but Rugr had learned long ago that no place was without its cracks. Over the last two decades, those cracks have become more challenging to ignore. Whispers in dark hallways, actions that didn’t match words, and the counsel of individuals with questionable motives. All signs of brewing discord.

  As head of internal security, Rugr had seen enough to be sure something was happening, though the exact nature of the conspiracy eluded him. The threads were thin, too fragile to pull without risking them snapping. But the oddities were accumulating. Over the past twenty-five years, the pace had quickened, and even Rugr, a man with access to more information than most, felt the weight of suspicion from his superiors. It was a strange, tense dance: they suspected he knew something he didn’t; he suspected the same of them.

  His focus sharpened as the wagon came into view, the faint silhouette looming in the dim light. Whatever Kleo’s reasons, the more immediate task demanded his attention. The remains needed a new resting place—somewhere temporary but well hidden. He’d bury them and mark the spot in his mind. It would take another hour, perhaps two, but he’d still reach Balta by the second dawn. That would give him enough time to think through Kleo’s actions, decipher her intent, and determine his next move.

  The blasted girl had set events in motion, and Rugr needed to know what game she was playing—before the stakes climbed any higher.