By midday, the northern pilgrim road had climbed out of the sheltered valley timber into a bleak upland of wind-scoured shale and twisted dwarf birch. Frozen wagon ruts from autumn timber hauls ran like iron rails through the crusted snow, dangerous underfoot even for an uninjured walker. For Seyun, whose left big toe remained bound in Mina’s twin cedar splints inside a cut-out boot wrap, every third step needed deliberate placement so he didn’t roll weight across the healing fracture.
Three paces ahead of him on the rising track, Ilyra walked backward and side-to-side with easy mountain balance. Her marsh-iron spear was held in a low, unrushed guard. They weren’t fighting at full Bronze speed—doing so on icy shale with forty-pound medicine packs on their backs would have exhausted their channels before nightfall—but the slowness of the drill made its shape unforgiving.
“Left rut is iced over,” Mina called out from five paces behind them, where she walked beside Osen Tal with her eyes fixed on Seyun’s left heel. “If I see you pivot on the ball of that braced foot to chase her spear shaft, Seyun, I’ll make Daro sit on your chest while I re-splint it with cold iron.”
