Ryn turned back to the entrance and gave a slight nod, knowing Mira would catch his gesture.

Seconds later, the doors to the storage area opened slowly.

She moved first, slipping through the area with ease into the loading bay.

Mira lifted her hand once, signaling to the rest of the captives. Shapes peeled away from the darkness one by one.

No one ran or spoke; they knew the stakes too well.

The captives emerged onto the abandoned platform in small groups, eyes wide as they took in the rails, the wagons, and the yawning tunnel ahead.

Ryn watched them approach, then spoke.

"Lay down in the wagons," he said quietly. "Don't move."

They obeyed without question.

"I'll cover you with the tarp," he continued. "When we reach the checkpoint, I'll whistle."

He paused, making sure they were listening.

"When you hear it, hold your breath until we pass through."

No one asked why.

Straw rustled softly as bodies settled into place.

Ryn pulled the canvas over them, securing it just enough to break sightlines.

One wagon filled. Then the second.

From the outside, it already looked right.

Fritz leaned closer, voice barely audible. "That's everyone."

Ryn nodded. "Seal it."

Fritz closed the rear gate and hauled the ramp up, fastening the canvas overhead.

It was almost laughable how easy it was.

The wagons lurched forward.

Wood creaked as iron rims settled into the grooves of the rails, sound echoing down the tunnel with each rotation.

The horses pulled without complaint, much to Ryn's relief.

He guided the lead wagon with an easy hand.

No one stopped them.

They passed beneath broken arches and faded markings carved into the walls, symbols worn so smooth they were barely shapes anymore.

The lights thinned the farther they went, lanterns giving way to darkness until only the glow ahead remained.

Air rushed in.

Cold.

The tunnel mouth opened slowly, revealing the world beyond Central's walls.

Frozen earth stretched out beneath a pale sky, the land of Dheam laid bare again. Wind swept across the open ground, carrying with it the sharp winter cold.

The contrast was staggering.

A checkpoint stood just beyond the tunnel, two watchfires burning low along with a reinforced gate meant to ward off beasts rather than people.

A handful of guards waited there.

Their faces were calm. It was just a routine after all.

The lead horse slowed as Ryn guided it in, wheels crunching softly as they left the rails and rolled onto packed snow.

One of the guards stepped forward, spear resting loosely in his grip.

"Disposal run?" he asked.

Ryn nodded once.

The guard exhaled, breath fogging the air.

"About time."

Ryn lifted the whistle to his lips and blew once—short and sharp, then stepped off the driver's box.

The guard loosened the string and opened the wagon's back door. Ryn held his breath, the same thing he'd told the captives to do.

The flap fell open just enough for the torch's light to spill inside.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Ryn's pulse thundered in his ears.

Then the guard straightened, snorted once, and tugged the canvas shut.

"Alright," he muttered. "Get them out of here."

The gate creaked open.

"Make sure to burn them," the guard added, already turning away as he walked back toward the checkpoint.

Ryn nodded and climbed back onto the driver's box and flicked the reins.

The wagons rolled forward, iron rims crunching over frozen earth as the checkpoint faded behind them.

They traveled in silence for a long while, the only sound the steady rhythm of the wagon's wheels.

Veering right, Central disappeared from view completely, swallowed back by the mists once again.

When the path narrowed and the mountains rose close on either side, Ryn slowed the wagons to a stop.

"Alright," he said quietly. "We're clear."

He jumped down and moved to the back, fingers working quickly at the ties. The canvas peeled away.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then breath rushed out all at once.

Hands trembled as captives pushed themselves upright, disbelief flashing across their faces as cold air hit their skin.

Someone laughed, one more of disbelief rather than relief. Another started crying; a few clutched each other like they were afraid they'd be pulled apart again.

They were free.

Mira moved among them immediately, helping those too weak to stand.

Fritz looked relieved—but Ryn knew part of him already understood this wasn't the end.

He watched it all in silence.

Snow drifted down softly, settling on the wagons, the tracks, the people who had almost vanished without a trace.

It was…almost too easy.

A plan that works from beginning to finish must have some flaw in it.

Ryn straightened slowly.

"Celebrate quietly," he said, voice calm but firm. "We're not done moving yet."

Some of the smiles faltered.

Ryn didn't explain.

He didn't need to.

Because somewhere, deep in his chest, certainty was already forming.

And that certainty had been answered immediately.

Snow shifted ahead of them, soft and deliberate.

Ryn turned at once, [Enhanced Senses] flaring as the sound resolved into weight and movement that were too soft to be a beast's, but too heavy to be a coincidence.

He drew Snow in a single motion.

Fritz didn't ask questions. He caught the signal instantly, ushering the captives back toward the wagon

Whatever was coming wasn't hiding anymore.

And it was close.

A figure stepped out from between the rocks, cloak dark against the white, boots crunching softly as if he weren't bothering to hide the sound anymore.

Ryn felt it immediately.

Danger.

The figure stopped a short distance away, snow drifting lazily around his boots. His gaze flicked past Ryn to the wagons.

"Hm," he said, tone almost bored. "Disposal team A or B?"

Fritz answered without thinking.

"A."

The man smiled.

Satisfied.

"Ah," he said softly. "Then this one's on me."

Ryn felt it immediately, not posture but intent.

The man shrugged off his cloak.

He was massive. Nearly twice the size of an average man, snow-white fur layered over a body built like it had been carved from stone. Tons of muscles pressed tight beneath his armor, dense and heavy.

A gigantic greatsword rested across his back. Something of that size would be laughable for anyone but him.

"The teams," the man continued, unhurried, "are numbered."

He took another step forward, boots biting into the snow.

"The jig's up, Gremory."

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