The trek back took twice as long as the march north.
The beastkin prisoners were weak, their bodies starved of food and warmth. Mira clung to Cora's arm, her small feet dragging through the snow. The others leaned on Mason and Sera, who had slung their weapons to free their hands. Derek's ghosts drifted ahead, scouting the path, their forms still brittle from the witch's attack. Dr. Blackwood kept close to Derek, muttering about the cold and the living's poor planning.
The ice witch walked in the center of the group, her hands bound, her frost magic suppressed by a thin silver chain Alistair had given Lucian before they left. She didn't struggle. Didn't speak. Just watched the snow with empty eyes.
Lucian led the way, his blades sheathed, his gaze fixed on the distant tree line. Cora fell in beside him.
"She's been quiet," Cora said.
"She's thinking."
"About what?"
"Whether to tell us the truth or a story."
