Sage

The sun is already climbing higher, casting sharp beams of mid-morning light through the trees as we leave camp behind. Reeves didn’t give us much time to prepare—just enough to pack essentials and inform Branson and Mara of the plan. The urgency in his tone didn’t leave much room for argument, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that we’re actually doing this.

The group is an odd assortment: Reeves and two of his men on horseback, Dash and me walking near the front, Greg hovering a little too close for comfort at the back, and the rest of the Accord guards spread out along the path. Most of us are on foot, the uneven terrain making the journey slower than I’d like.

Dash walks beside me, his shoulders stiff, his eyes darting to every movement in the trees. I can feel the tension radiating off him, his hand brushing the hilt of his knife every so often as if to reassure himself it’s still there.

“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, “we’re not exactly walking into a war zone.”

Dash doesn’t look at me, his gaze fixed ahead. “Feels like it,” he mutters, his tone clipped.

I sigh, adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, though I know it’s just my nerves. “You can’t keep your hand on that knife the whole time,” I tease gently. “You’ll wear the leather out.”

That earns me a glance, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “Not taking chances,” he says quietly, his voice softening just enough to remind me he’s still Dash, even under all this intensity.

Ahead, Reeves rides with an air of ease that feels out of place, like he doesn’t notice—or care—about the tension swirling around the rest of us. Every so often, he casts a glance back at us, his expression unreadable.

Behind us, Greg keeps pace with one of Reeves’s men, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. He’s observing everything—me, Dash, the guards, the path ahead. I don’t miss the way he keeps glancing at Reeves like he’s trying to figure him out.

I lean closer to Dash, keeping my voice low. “Greg’s watching Reeves like he’s studying for a final exam.”

Dash doesn’t respond right away, his gaze flicking to Greg before returning to the trail ahead. “He’s playing his own game,” he says finally. “Always has been.”

The path narrows as we move into denser woods, the trees crowding closer together. Reeves slows his horse, glancing back at me for the first time. “How’s she holding up?” he asks Dash, his tone neutral, but his eyes assessing.

I stiffen, biting back the urge to snap at him. Instead, I keep my tone steady. “She’s fine,” I say, my voice cool.

Dash steps slightly closer to me, his presence a quiet but steady reminder that I’m not alone in this. Reeves gives a small shrug, like he doesn’t care enough to press the matter, and turns his attention back to the trail.

The rest of the walk is quiet, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and the crunch of boots on dirt. The Accord men seem perfectly at ease, while Dash stays sharp, his tension like a live wire humming between us.

As the trees begin to thin, revealing the edge of the Accord settlement in the distance, my stomach tightens. The sight of their camp—larger and more structured than ours—brings a weight I wasn’t prepared for.

“Almost there,” Dash says, his voice low, but the way he grips my arm lightly as we stop tells me he’s feeling it too.

Reeves pulls his horse to a halt, turning back to look at us. “Stay sharp,” he says, his tone flat, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes my skin crawl.

I glance at Dash, his jaw tight as he nods. Whatever we’re walking into, it’s clear that this is only the beginning.

The closer we get to the Accord camp, the more oppressive the atmosphere becomes. The settlement sprawls across a clearing, larger than I imagined, with rows of makeshift buildings, tents, and guard towers looming like silent sentinels. Smoke curls from a few cooking fires, and the faint hum of activity hangs in the air.

It’s organized, efficient—even intimidating. But what strikes me most is the sheer number of people. Women bustle about with heavy loads, their eyes cast downward as they move quickly from one task to the next. Men patrol in pairs, their postures relaxed but their hands never far from their weapons.

Reeves dismounts, handing the reins of his horse to one of his men without a word. He looks back at us, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he jerks his head toward the center of camp. “You’ll want to get settled before we meet with Alicia,” he says, already walking away as if expecting us to follow.

Dash’s hand hovers near my lower back, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the heat of him. I glance up at him, catching the sharp focus in his eyes as he scans the camp. He doesn’t miss a thing—the guards, the layout, the movements of everyone around us.

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“Dash,” I say quietly, trying to ground him. “It’s okay.”

His jaw tightens, and he doesn’t respond.

Greg, of course, takes this moment to step forward, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets. “Cozy,” he says, his tone laced with sarcasm as he surveys the camp.

I ignore him, keeping my focus on Reeves as he leads us through the settlement. The stares start almost immediately—sharp, assessing looks from the men and quick, curious glances from the women.

The discomfort settles over me like a heavy cloak. I can feel the weight of their eyes, the unspoken questions in their gazes. It’s not outright hostility, but there’s no warmth here either.

Reeves stops outside a canvas tent near the center of camp. “This is where you’ll stay,” he says, motioning toward it. “We’ll meet with Alicia this afternoon. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting, so don’t wander off.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before striding away, his men following close behind.

Dash steps forward, opening the tent flap and scanning the interior before motioning me inside. It’s sparse but functional—a single cot, a small table, and a couple of chairs. It’s clear this space isn’t meant for comfort.

Greg leans against the doorframe, his gaze flicking between us. “Guess this is home for now,” he says, his tone light but his eyes calculating.

“You won’t be sleeping here,” Dash informs Greg, his tone tight as he sets my bag down on the cot, not even bothering to look at him.

I step inside, running my hand over the rough surface of the table.

Greg doesn’t move, his presence a shadow in the doorway. I glance at him, arching an eyebrow. “You planning to just stand there, or…?”

He smirks, pushing off the frame. “Just getting the lay of the land,” he says smoothly before stepping back outside.

Dash watches him go, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s up to something.”

“He always is,” I reply, sinking into one of the chairs. The tension in my shoulders refuses to ease, and I let out a slow breath, trying to ground myself.

Dash crouches in front of me, his hand resting lightly on my knee. “You good?”

I meet his eyes, finding the steady calm I’ve come to rely on. “I’m good,” I say, even though the unease still churns in my gut. “Just… ready to get this over with.”

He nods, his thumb brushing gently over my knee before he stands. “We’ll stick together. No matter what.”

His words settle something in me, and I give him a small, grateful smile.

But even as I sit there, trying to steady myself, I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning—and that whatever waits for us here is far more complicated than we’re ready for.

The moment Reeves and his men disappear from sight, the weight of the camp settles over me like a lead blanket. My pulse quickens, and I can’t seem to draw a full breath, the air feeling thinner here—heavier, somehow.

It’s not just the stares, though those alone are enough to make my skin crawl. It’s the way the camp moves, the rigid efficiency of it all. Every step is measured, every action deliberate, as if no one dares to waste a single moment.

The women shuffle past, their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched. Most of them are young—far younger than I expected. Their hands are rough and reddened, their movements mechanical. A few carry heavy baskets, their frames too small for the burden. Others scrub at clothes with a frantic energy, as though their very existence depends on perfection.

It’s the way they don’t look up that gets to me most. No connection, no curiosity, no spark of individuality. It’s like they’ve learned that being invisible is the safest option.

My stomach churns.

That could have been me.

The thought hits like a blow, hard and unrelenting. If things had gone differently, if I’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, would I be like them? Hiding in plain sight, trying not to draw attention? Would Mara?

Mara’s voice echoes in my mind, her laughter, her sass, her strength. She’s such a force, always willing to push back, to question, to fight. But even she wouldn’t have stood a chance against this place. I can picture her here, her fire slowly extinguished under the weight of it all, forced into silence and submission.

My hands clench into fists at the thought.

This isn’t just about protecting my camp anymore. It can’t be. It’s about making sure that no one—Mara, me, anyone—ends up like this. It’s about doing what I can to keep Alicia’s women from sliding further into this kind of existence.

But how?

The question loops in my mind, frustrating and relentless. How do you help people who’ve been broken down to the point where survival is all they know?

I glance at Dash, who’s standing near the door, his eyes scanning the camp with that sharp, watchful focus I’ve come to rely on. His jaw is set, his whole body tense, and I know he feels it too—that same undercurrent of danger, of oppression, of wrongness.

“I’ll be back,” I say quietly, standing and brushing off my hands.

His gaze snaps to me, his brows furrowing. “Where are you going?”

“Just to walk,” I reply. “I need to… see something.”

Dash hesitates, his body shifting slightly like he’s ready to follow me, but I give him a small shake of my head. “I’ll stay close. Promise.”

He shakes his head, firmly. “No, Sage. Not here. Sorry. You know I respect you, but I refuse to let you out of my sight while we’re here.”

Annoyance sparks in me, but I concede, unable to deny the feeling of danger.

I keep my steps slow, purposeful, trying not to draw attention. I weave through the camp, letting my eyes wander over the details Reeves and his men likely never think twice about.

The cracked skin on a woman’s hands as she struggles to lift a heavy bucket.

The torn hem of another’s dress, hastily patched.

The shadows under their eyes, the stiffness in their shoulders, the careful way they move like they’re afraid to take up too much space.

It’s everywhere.

And I hate how helpless it makes me feel.

I can’t change this. Not here, not now. These women have been living this way for who knows how long, and whatever power I might have isn’t enough to undo what’s been done.

But it doesn’t stop the thought from creeping in: How can I leave this place and do nothing?

The truth is, I don’t know if I can.

I stop near the edge of camp, my gaze landing on a group of women sorting through piles of laundry. Their hands move in practiced motions, their eyes fixed downward. A man walks past, barking some kind of order, and I watch as their postures tighten, their movements growing even faster.

I could have been one of them.

The thought twists in my chest, and I press a hand to my stomach, trying to steady myself.

I can’t save everyone. I know that. But I can save the people in my camp. And maybe, just maybe, I can do something for these women before this is all over.

Even if it’s just planting a seed, reminding them that there’s more to life than this.

But the longer I stand there, the more the hopelessness creeps in.

How do you show someone a way out when they can’t even look up to see it?