Chapter 12 — Weight

  (Crimson — First Person)

  I woke up before the light.

  That wasn’t new.

  The world was still gray and undecided, the kind of quiet that came before people remembered what they were meant to do. Blade hadn’t moved yet. His pack rested where he’d set it the night before, straps neat, nothing out of place.

  I stayed still.

  The fire was gone. Not cold—erased. Just a darker circle of earth where it had been.

  I listened.

  Nothing pressed back. No sense of waiting. No wrongness in the ground. Just the slow, ordinary sound of morning deciding itself.

  That should have been enough.

  It wasn’t.

  I thought of a room with tall windows and no curtains.

  I remembered my father’s voice as I passed the doorway.

  I hadn’t meant to listen.

  “I’m the one who didn’t leave,” he said to someone inside.

  I slowed without stopping.

  “I stay awake when the others sleep.”

  A pause.

  “Do you know what breaks if I stop?”

  The room went quiet.

  He didn’t sound angry. He didn’t have to.

  I kept walking.

  I learned early which questions were worth the weight they added.

  The memory didn’t come with heat or pain. Just the familiar tightening in my chest. The reminder.

  I exhaled slowly and sat up.

  By the time Blade stirred, I was already standing.

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  We took another job after sunrise.

  “Your girl can stay there,” the man said to Blade, already turning away.

  Blade didn’t correct him.

  The man moved on.

  I stayed where I was.

  Carrying supplies from one outpost to another. Crates of dried grain, sealed tools, bundled cloth. Nothing fragile. Nothing dangerous. The kind of work that didn’t ask questions of the road.Humans loved their forts—little squares of stone planted like punctuation marks along the road.

  As if the land needed reminding at all.

  Blade took most of the weight.

  I noticed immediately.

  He lifted two crates without comment and settled them into his pack as if they belonged there. I took one smaller bundle and adjusted the strap until it sat right.

  We started walking.

  The road was wide. Open. Too visible for ambush. The fields on either side were already being worked, distant figures bent to tasks that didn’t concern us.

  I matched Blade’s pace without being told.

  After a while, I realized I was scanning anyway.

  My eyes moved to the tree line. Then the dips in the road. Then the space behind us. I slowed myself, then sped up again, unsure which felt less obvious.

  Nothing looked wrong.

  That didn’t stop the habit.

  Blade walked ahead, steady under the load. His steps didn’t change. His attention stayed forward.

  I opened my mouth once.

  Closed it.

  There was nothing to ask about. Not really.

  The route was clear. The work was simple.

  The fields had already turned. Stalks cut low, grain bundled and stacked for transport before winter set in. People worked without hurry, like the season itself had decided how much effort was required.

  The silence wasn’t heavy the way it used to be.

  Still, I felt… extra.

  My bundle didn’t weigh much. I could have carried more. I should have said something. Asked if he wanted me to take another crate.

  The thought formed cleanly.

  Then stalled.

  I remembered how that room had gone quiet. How nobody could say anything back. Neither could I.

  How could I?

  I shifted the strap on my shoulder instead and kept watch.

  If I wasn’t carrying as much, I could at least notice things sooner. That was logic. That made sense.

  The road stayed dull.

  A cart passed us going the other way. The driver nodded. We nodded back. No one slowed.

  After a time, Blade slowed down just enough to notice, adjusted his grip on the pack, and glanced sideways.

  “You alright?” he asked.

  The question caught me off guard.

  “Yes,” I said quickly. Then, after a beat, “Just—fine.”

  He nodded and kept walking.

  The pack sat heavy against his back. Mine didn’t.

  The outpost came into view before noon.

  “Grain and tools?” one of the guards asked, already stepping aside.

  Blade nodded.

  The man glanced at the crates. “Set them there.”

  We did.

  “Where do you want these?” I asked.

  The guard pointed without looking. “Platform’s fine.”

  He scratched something onto a slate, tore the page free, and handed it over.

  “That’s everything,” he said.

  Blade took it. We turned.

  No one stopped us.

  On the walk back, the question came again.

  I could ask next time.

  It hovered there, incomplete.

  I didn’t answer it.

  And the road stretched ahead, wide and empty.