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"You're not tied up."
Cyrus looked up. Lien stood by the back flap, one hand holding the canvas, the other resting on her belt. Blade there. He'd bet on it.
"Yeah," he said. "Noticed that."
"Kael didn't tie you. So either you're not dangerous or she thinks you won't run."
"Maybe both."
"Which one?"
The wagon rocked hard. A kid curled near his boot mumbled something in his sleep. Cyrus glanced toward the cab. Kael was still driving, shoulders locked, both hands on the wheel. She hadn't said a word since they left the checkpoint ruin.
"Don't know yet," Cyrus said.
Lien's eyes narrowed. "That's honest. I'll give you that."
She crouched lower, studying him like she was deciding where to put the knife.
"You fix tattoos," she said.
"Yeah."
"Black market?"
"Mostly."
"Deserter marks?"
Cyrus didn't answer. Lien tilted her head.
"That's a yes," she said. "So you erase people. Make them vanish."
"I help people start over."
"By cutting their past off."
"By giving them a chance."
Lien leaned in. Her voice dropped but didn't soften. "Did you take that chance?"
Cyrus felt his jaw tighten. "What?"
"You've got the look. I've seen it before. The way you move, the way you check exits. You were military."
He didn't confirm it. Didn't need to.
"So what happened?" Lien asked. "You run? Or did they kick you out?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does. Because if you ran once, you'll run again."
Cyrus met her eyes. She was maybe sixteen. Too young to sound like that.
"I'm not running," he said.
"Not yet."
The wagon jolted. A kid whimpered, then settled when an older girl pulled him close. Lien didn't look away.
"You want to know if you can trust me," Cyrus said.
"No," Lien said. "I already know I can't. I want to know if Kael's gonna die because you're here."
That landed heavier than he expected.
"I'm trying to fix her marks," Cyrus said. "That's the job."
"The job." Lien stood up, stepped over two sleeping kids, and crouched right in front of him. "Right. And when the job gets too hard? When the military catches up? When the Scar beasts start circling? What then?"
"I'll figure it out."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
Lien's hand moved to her belt. The blade came out—short, flat, catching the dim light from the gap in the canvas.
"Kael saved us," Lien said. "All of us. You know what they were gonna do with us? Ship us to the southern front. Powder duty. Munitions work. Half of us wouldn't make it past the first month. The other half would be dead by winter."
Cyrus didn't move.
"She walked into the depot," Lien said, "looked the officer in the face, and told him no. Then she loaded us into this wagon and drove out. No permission. No orders. She just took us."
The blade pressed under his jaw, angled up. Lien's hand didn't shake.
"So if you're thinking about bailing," she said, "you should know something. I'll kill you myself. Before you get the chance to run. Before you leave her hanging. Understand?"
Cyrus swallowed. Felt the edge bite just a little.
"Yeah," he said. "I understand."
Lien held the knife there for three more seconds. Then she pulled it back, slid it into the sheath, and walked to the flap. Didn't sit. Just stood there, watching the dark road behind them.
Cyrus let out a slow breath. His pulse hammered in his throat. He pressed his palm against the wagon floor, felt the wheels grinding underneath.
"She means it."
Cyrus turned. Another kid—older than Lien, maybe seventeen—sat with his back against the wall. His face was half-shadowed, but his eyes were sharp.
"I know," Cyrus said.
The kid nodded. "Lien doesn't bluff. She gutted a supply sergeant two weeks ago. He tried to separate the younger ones. She put a blade through his hand and told him if he touched any of us again, she'd take his eyes."
Cyrus stared.
"He believed her," the kid added.
"Smart man," Cyrus muttered.
The kid almost smiled. "I'm Ran."
"Cyrus."
"I know. Lien told us."
"She tell you anything else?"
"That you're a deserter. That you owe someone. That Kael's dragging you along because you screwed up her ink."
Cyrus grimaced. "That about covers it."
Ran tilted his head. "You leave a squad behind?"
Cyrus didn't answer.
"It's fine," Ran said. "I'm not judging. Just wondering."
"Why?"
"Because Kael won't talk about hers either."
Cyrus looked up. "Her what?"
"Her old squad," Ran said. "The one she had before this. Before us."
Lien glanced back over her shoulder. "Ran. Shut up."
"He should know," Ran said.
"No, he shouldn't."
"If he's fixing her marks, he's gonna see it anyway."
Lien's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue.
Ran leaned forward. "Kael had a full squad. Eight soldiers. All war-bound, all tattooed like her. They were deep Scar runners—went into the red zones, cleared nests, pulled civs out of dead towns."
"What happened to them?" Cyrus asked.
Ran's expression went flat. "Command sent them into a kill box. Bad intel, no air support, no extraction. Kael was the only one who walked out."
Cyrus felt something cold settle in his chest.
"She doesn't talk about it," Ran said. "But when she found us in that depot, she looked at us like—" He paused. "Like she wasn't gonna lose another squad."
Lien turned around fully now, her face hard. "That's enough."
"She's gonna forget them," Ran said quietly. "Every time she uses the ink, she loses something. One day she won't even remember their names."
Cyrus looked toward the cab. He could just barely see Kael's silhouette through the canvas gap—rigid, focused, locked on the wheel.
"That's why you have two days," Lien said. "If you don't fix it, she'll burn out. And when she does, we're all dead."
The wagon hit a deep rut and lurched sideways. One of the kids woke up crying. The older girl shushed him, rocked him back and forth.
Cyrus rubbed his face. His hands smelled like old ink and rust.
"I'll fix it," he said.
"You better," Lien said.
Then, from outside, a sound cut through the engine noise.
A horn. Long, metallic, echoing across the flats.
Military.
Lien went rigid. Ran sat up fast.
"They found us," Lien whispered.
The horn sounded again. Closer.
Kael's voice came from the cab, hard and sharp. "Everyone down. Now."
The kids flattened. Cyrus pressed himself against the crate, heart pounding.
The wagon lurched forward, faster now. Kael was gunning it.
Then something scraped along the underside—metal on metal, dragging, wet.
Lien crawled toward the back flap and yanked it open.
A hand shot up from underneath, bloody, clawing at the edge of the wagon bed.
Then a face.
A soldier. His uniform was shredded, his throat torn open on one side, but he was still moving. Still breathing.
His eyes locked on Cyrus.
And he smiled.
"Vale," the soldier rasped. "Thought you were dead."
Lien raised her knife.
The horn sounded again, right behind them.
And the soldier started to laugh.