Part Twelve — Word on the Road

　We passed a merchant caravan on the third day out, heading the opposite direction at a pace that struck me as a little too eager for a man supposedly just running goods between towns.

Doran clocked it before I did.

"Something's got him spooked."

"Or he's just late," Fenrik offered.

"Nobody's that late."

We flagged him down anyway — Doran's call, made with the easy authority of someone used to being the one who decided things like that.

The merchant, a heavyset man with a cart half-empty of whatever he'd been selling, looked relieved to have someone to talk to, even strangers.

"Wouldn't go that way if I were you," he said, jerking a thumb back the way he'd come.

"Road past the fork's gone bad. Lost two of my guards to it three days back. Whatever's out there hits fast and doesn't leave much of a mess to investigate after."

"Bandits?" Doran asked.

"Bandits don't usually leave scorch marks," the merchant said, lowering his voice like the trees themselves might be listening.

"Whatever did that to my guards wasn't swinging a sword."

Well.

That's a new kind of concerning.

Doran's expression didn't change much.

But I'd learned enough of his tells by now to catch the shift — jaw set slightly tighter, eyes doing a slow scan of the treeline like he was already recalculating the terrain.

"Appreciate the warning," Doran said.

"We'll be careful."

"Careful's not always enough," the merchant said, already urging his cart forward again.

"But it's a start, I suppose."

We didn't talk about it much once he'd gone.

Just kept walking.

The atmosphere between the three of us a shade quieter than it had been that morning.

"You think it's true?" Fenrik asked eventually.

"The scorch marks. Not swords."

"Don't know," Doran said.

"Wouldn't be the first time a scared man's story grew some extra details on the way out of a bad situation."

A pause.

"Wouldn't be the first time it was worse than he said, either."

"Comforting," Fenrik muttered.

"Wasn't trying to comfort you."

Doran didn't even look at him.

"Trying to keep you alive. Different job."

That's fair, honestly.

I'll take useful over comforting most days.

"For what it's worth," I said, "if it is something with anti-mana behind it, I can handle myself."

I glanced between them.

"Doesn't mean either of you should get careless."

"Just means I'm not going to be the weak link if it comes to it."

Doran gave me a sideways look.

Not doubt, exactly.

More like a man recalibrating a number he'd already updated once and was updating again.

"Didn't figure you would be," he said.

"Doesn't mean I'm not going to worry about it anyway."

Huh.

Wasn't expecting that particular sentence out of him.

That evening, over a fire built smaller and more carefully than the last two nights — Doran's call, made without explanation, though I noticed he'd picked a spot with better sightlines than usual — Fenrik brought up something that had clearly been sitting with him since the merchant.

"You ever killed anyone, Doran?"

The question landed heavier than the tone it was asked in.

Doran didn't answer right away.

He turned a piece of kindling over in his hands like it needed his full attention.

"Yeah," he said finally.

"More than I'd like."

A pause.

"Less than some people I've known."

"Bandits? Or —"

"Ask me again sometime I've had more to drink," Doran said, not unkindly, but final enough that Fenrik let it go.

There it is.

Same locked door as always.

Bit more of the outline visible tonight, though.

I filed that away too.

The way I seemed to be filing everything lately — Doran's watchfulness, his scar, whatever "more than I'd like, less than some people" was actually covering.

Not my business yet.

Maybe not ever, if he didn't want it to be.

But the shape of it was getting a little clearer with each night we spent around the same fire.

And that, at least, felt like progress.

Whatever's past that fork, we'll deal with it when we get there.

Tonight, I'm just glad it's three of us at this fire instead of one.