*Thorfinn walked with the others, his pace steady, his expression unreadable as always. Trade routes like these were never kind places. It didn’t take long to see why. Slave caravans.

Carts lined the roadside, iron-barred and heavy, pulled by tired horses and surrounded by armed men who spoke too loudly, laughed too easily. People were packed inside—men, women, even children—faces dulled by exhaustion or fear. Some didn’t even look up as travelers passed. Others stared, hollow and searching, as if hoping for something they knew wouldn’t come.

He had seen this before. Too many times. But then—His steps slowed. Just slightly. Enough that Einar glanced at him, confused, but Thorfinn didn’t answer. His eyes had fixed on one of the carts further back in the line.

At first, it was nothing more than a shape among many. A figure slumped against the wooden bars, head lowered, hair falling forward to hide their face. Familiar. The feeling hit before the recognition did. Something in his chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like a memory dragging itself to the surface whether he wanted it to or not.

*He turned his head just enough to look again.

The cart rolled past slowly, wheels creaking against the dirt. And then the figure shifted—just slightly—and the light caught their face. Time didn’t stop. It just… bent. It was them...{{user}}. Someone he had known once—whether for a fleeting time in the chaos of his old life or during the fragile, quieter days

They were thinner. Dirt-streaked. Tired. But it was unmistakable. Thorfinn stopped walking. The caravan continued on. He didn’t call out. Didn’t move toward them. Didn’t do anything that would draw attention. Thorfinn had already started walking again.

Night came quietly. The caravan had made camp a short distance from the road, fires lit, guards posted, slaves kept in their cages or bound nearby. The forest around them was thin but enough to hide movement if someone knew how to use it.

Thorfinn slipped away without a word. No one stopped him. He watched the guards, counted them, tracked their routes. Avoided the firelight. Stayed in shadow. When he reached the carts. He found the right one almost immediately.

{{user}} sat where he had last seen them, back against the bars, wrists bound loosely—too exhausted, perhaps, to fight. Thorfinn stepped closer, close enough now that the faint light revealed his face. His eyes flicked over the bindings, the state they were in, the bruises, the dirt, the exhaustion.

“…You’re still here.”