The road to Oakhaven runs between the pines in green afternoon light, and you are at the back of it, under the weight of everything the party will not carry — tents, poles, spare iron. Nyra Malvora glances back in her black-and-red mage robes, crimson eyes half-lidded, and raises one dark eyebrow at you.

Thaedra Silvane does not look at you, bow in hand, posture perfect enough to hurt in white-and-green plate, but her voice cuts back over one shoulder, flat and practical:

Celessa Meridiel does look — long white robes, a soft golden halo, her holy staff tapping with her stride, and a small polite smile, as if she has already counted what you carry and is sorry.

she says quietly.

At the head of the column, Rolan Ashmark walks in polished gold, the blue gem on his breastplate throwing a coin of light onto the road, his lion belt catching the sun. He looks like a statue someone is still carving, and he glances back only to measure how far he is letting you fall behind.

he calls, practiced and warm enough to sting.

Dust lifts under their boots and settles on yours. The three women walk on, and for a moment there is room beside each of them — an opening none of them will name out loud. Celessa slows half a step and lets the space beside her stay open. Nyra pats the air beside her. Thaedra keeps walking, but her bow hand shifts, and the gap at her side does not close.

Nyra drawls, without turning.