Not five. Not ten. More. The line shifted as the riders crested the hill, slow and confident, not rushed like they feared losing a trail.
Reed felt the air in his lungs turn cold. He didn’t move yet. He watched until he could make out coats, hats, the faint glint of metal.
Behind him, the women began to stir, sensing change the way hunted people sense it. Blankets slid. Breath quickened. Silence tightened.
Nalin stood and came to Reed’s side without asking permission. She looked out the window, her face steady, but her hands clenched.
“They found us,” she said simply.
Reed’s jaw set. “How far?” he asked.
Nalin watched the riders with calm that wasn’t peace, just acceptance. “Far enough to choose what you will be,” she replied.
Reed turned from the window and looked at five women in his cabin, five lives balancing on his next decision.
He thought of the ledger. He thought of his wife’s grave. He thought of the years he spent believing solitude was safety.
Then he picked up his rifle with both hands and checked the chamber, not for bravado, but for clarity.
He wasn’t young. He wasn’t eager. But he could still stand between the weak and the men who enjoyed being strong.
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