Lucian led them off the plain without looking back.
Marc followed close, one hand still pressed against his ribs. Silas trailed a step behind, arm bound tight against his chest with a strip of torn cloth. The local hunters watched from the broken gate platforms but made no move to stop them. A few raised hands in something like respect. Most just stared.
Silas glanced over his shoulder once. "They're going to turn us into campfire stories by nightfall."
"Let them," Marc said. His voice was rough. "We're not coming back."
Lucian didn't comment. He kept walking until the ruined outpost fell out of sight and the air began to thin with the residual pull of a fading rift. The crossing was rough. The space between worlds still carried scars from the Outer God's presence, and every step left a faint pressure behind the eyes.
They emerged on a stretch of empty highland under a pale sky. Wind moved through dry grass. No gates. No hunters. Just distance.
