Chapter 172: The Sleeping Thing
The next day, the sky was veiled in a dirty yellow haze. A murky light bathed the camp, as if the world had been whitewashed in lye. The time had come.
Dylan had slipped out of his cot well before dawn, silent, leaving the other workers snoring in their sweat. He’d taken care to close the canvas flap behind him, and stepped into the dry morning mist, the bandages around his torso slightly tightened. The stigma pulsed softly, but he ignored it. For now, at least.
He paused for a few moments behind the north hangar—his usual post. From there, he could see the preparations for the convoy: three transport carts covered in green tarps, one loaded with metal crates, the other two meant for passengers and equipment. A handful of soldiers moved briskly, arms full, tension on their faces. A few workers added cables, secured wheels, checked the horses. Everything felt improvised, rushed, almost desperate.
He didn’t have much time.
If he wanted to board, he had to disappear inside one of the vehicles without being noticed—or be noticed just enough to not seem invisible.
He already knew which one.
The second cart. The one in the center.
The one with the most frequent comings and goings. The one being filled with black crates marked with an unfamiliar triangular symbol. The one the escort leader—a thin man with a sharp gaze—kept checking over and over again.
Dylan tightened the straps of his canvas sack. Inside: a few tools, two bottles of water, a forged pass he’d copied the day before from one the guards had tossed aside during a break, and most importantly, a small anima gem—almost drained, but enough to replenish his energy in case of emergency.
He started walking.
At a steady pace. Like a young laborer sent to fetch a part or deliver a box.