Wei reached the shelter at dawn with a dust-covered report from Dusk Ridge. The enemy force had turned north. He spread Han’s map across the west-road command table and called for the cavalry captain.
Ors came in from the dry rise with the two riders Yan had sent to watch the road. Their horses were lathered from the climb. Ors pointed to the north line on the map. “The tracks go that way. No one has doubled back toward the convoy.”
“Did you see Jue?” Wei asked.
“Not clearly. The rear of the column moved under the trees.” Ors rubbed one hand over his horse’s wet neck. “We can follow the marks before the ground dries.”
Yan stood beside him. He had slept little, and the clasp remained in his coat pocket. The sound of the word “north” brought Jue back to him—the blade, the broken shield, the moment after Han fell.
“I’ll ride after him,” Yan said.
Wei looked at the route marks. “Several families are still moving between shelters. The road is not clear yet.”
Oren entered with two guides. “The next group is at the mill turn. They’ll reach the western shelter after first light.”
