It's a test of patience to wait, the cogs turning against us the longer it takes for the guards to become weary of their patrols. Separation is not an option. And yet, moving too soon could end in failure.

When snoring is a grating scrape against my ears and the moon is nearing its descent to the west, I know.

It’s time.

The board I target is loose and lists marginally to the side from my constant hammering. I may be an assassin, but killing isn’t the only skill a killer needs.

I twist and pull the board, feeling it give, hissing when I batter my hands against the silver bars inset on either side of the plank I'm currently prying off.

Slivers of wood imbed deep into my skin, but I don't stop, eventually ramming my hand when the board gives with a harsh snap. I hiss, shaking my smarting hand and trying not to curse.

My heart beats quicker with excitement. What you can't accomplish with strength, you accomplish through tenacity and stubbornness. My Pa would say I have both in spades.

A smile tightens my face as I get to work.

The picks hidden in the sole of my boot make an appearance. Five minutes... I'm not the quickest lock-pick. One area of many failures, according to my previous masters.

My hand is falling asleep since one arm is hyper-extended. The burning silver bars are just big enough to fit my arm through and the lock—of course—takes two arms. One hand gets the tensioner in place while the other works on the pins, making me bend in awkward ways to reach.

They can't make escape easy? Shame on them, my infernal internal voice comments.

I jiggle the lock when it determines to be stubborn, finally hearing the last pin click above the shear line with a minute metallic clink. A sense of vague gratification strikes through me as the lock falls away and I swing the door open.

Sometimes the best plans are the simplest. Less to go wrong. Finding the weakest plank and making it the target of my bleeding and aching knuckles perhaps wasn't the smartest plan... but it worked, didn't it?

I ignore the laughing tag along who doesn't have permission to be here.

I'm you, doofus. Of course I have permission to be here.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

I sneak through the encampment, ghosting through the shadows and flicking between yawning guards. Complacency from the peaceful trip is my friend tonight.

The scent of smoke from campfires and the sweet sap of trees meets my nose along with a beaver's slightly moldy odor, the scent not as old as I would expect. The fellow must've scampered off as soon as we pulled into the clearing.

The faint trickling of running water matches the direction the beaver went.

They set my family's cage two wagons over from my own. Whoever made that foolish decision... they should be fired. Keeping prisoners as far apart as possible is one of the first things I learned about captives.

Still, makes this easier for me.

I only have to sneak past one alert man walking a steady and predictable path. He makes the same route each time around the clearing on almost the same two hundred step count. The others rest under trees with helms pulled low, leaning on shields and swords, making me wince. Respect in this group is lacking. What replaces it is fear of reprisal, which is the only reason this group stays together. There is no pack, no coordination or working of individual parts for the greater of the whole. It's each man for himself, which can be exploited.

Outside the silver bars with the moon blanketing my shoulders in its tingling embrace, I feel little increments of my strength returning. The bone deep weariness recedes. My wolf stretches and yawns inside, as if waking from a nap. I flash a snarling smile into the thickets beside the wagons.

I reach the door where my family is kept, the silver of the bars and the grey planks bringing a sour taste to my mouth.

"Ma?" I call quietly.

"Roland?" Barry exclaims, much too loudly.

"Shhh!" I say and hear a mumbled apology, as if someone's hand is covering his mouth.

Probably his brother.

"I'm going to get you out. But you have to promise to be quiet and do as I say when I say it."

"We will." This time my mother's strained voice comes from between the cracks of grey board.

Minutes later, I swing open the door.

Barry gives me a gap-toothed grin, bouncing on his feet as if this is a grand adventure despite the dirt streaking his cheeks, which is not abnormal. I smile at him and ruffle his hair, making his grin widen to showcase his dimple even as he bats me off.

Jed and Mother are a bit more reserved, but Jed gives me a weary smile while Mother nods.

I hiss as a bell tolls, shattering the stillness of the coming dawn. The whisper of feet against grass makes my heart race and prickles of apprehension race up my neck.

"Go. Don't let the boys look back. Follow the road," I say, knowing she’s smart enough to make it back to the last city we passed and hide out until she can get word to my pa.

I turn to face the men who are a mix of half-clothed, bleary-eyed men and bright eyed jingoist with baldrics fully clenched who, discerning by the harsh glint in their eyes, are out for blood.

Mother nods, her face stoic. She covers my hand as I pass her the knife, waiting until I look at her to release my hand. "Survive. Find us," she murmurs.

I nod, and they're gone. I smile, I’ll try, but... innately I know I may die this night, and plain happy I could get them out. Mother is a tough bird, and I trained Jed on everything I know about surviving and covering your tracks. They'll be alright if I give them enough time before these men nip at their heels. If it's up to me, none will make it from this clearing without pain.

At least my life was good for something.