“I’m adjusting,” I counter, correcting my path before he can say anything else.
“You’re compensating,” he shoots back, glancing over his shoulder briefly. “Different thing.”
“Same result,” I mutter.
He exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh, and slows half a step without making it obvious.
“Drink,” he says, nodding toward the pack on my shoulder.
“I already?—”
“Drink,” he repeats, firmer this time.
I glare at the back of his head for a second, then reach for the pack, pulling the water free and taking a controlled sip. The liquid hits dry and sharp, barely enough to take the edge off, and I cap it again quickly before the instinct to keep going takes over.
“Happy?” I ask.
“Less annoyed,” he replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
The ground shifts under us again, sand giving way to a harder-packed stretch marked with faint lines that cut across the natural flow of the terrain. I slow slightly, my eyes catching on the pattern as something about it feels?—
Wrong.
“Hold up,” I say, lifting a hand.
Hrask stops immediately, turning just enough to follow my line of sight.
“You see that?” I ask, stepping closer to the marks.
He crouches without hesitation, brushing his fingers across the surface in the same way I’ve watched him do a dozen times now.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “That’s not environmental.”
The lines run parallel in places, then break, then reappear again, partially buried under drifting sand but still visible if you know what you’re looking for.
“Tracks?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” he replies, shifting slightly as he studies the pattern. “Too consistent for natural movement, too shallow for standard transport.”
“Dragged,” I say, crouching beside him despite the protest from my ribs.
“Yeah,” he agrees, glancing at me briefly. “Controlled movement. Repeated.”
My fingers hover over one of the lines, tracing it lightly without disturbing it.
“This is a route,” I murmur. “Or it was.”
“Smuggling,” he says, straightening slowly. “Has to be.”
I push myself up as well, slower this time, my balance shifting unevenly before I correct it.
“They’re using the Deadlands,” I say, looking out along the direction the lines lead. “Moving things through where nobody’s supposed to survive.”
“Smart,” he mutters. “No oversight, no interference, and if something goes wrong, it disappears.”
