Quinlan looked at Feng.
Feng looked at Quinlan.
Neither said a word, just exchanged a look heavy with questions. Then, as if on cue, they both shrugged. If the old man had wanted them dead, he'd had his chance. There was no need for tricks or hidden alleyways. He could've crushed Quinlan's throat the moment he'd hit the ground.
So they followed.
The old man didn't slow down. Didn't check if they were coming. His gait remained steady—clack, hiss, groan—one leg dragging with each step.
They kept a respectful distance. A few paces behind, not too close. Close enough to not lose him, far enough to not annoy him. He didn't speak, and they didn't try to make him.
Steps stretched into miles.
The once-bustling streets of the city gave way to packed dirt roads. Then to gravel. Then to wild grass. Lantern light faded behind them, swallowed by the ink of night. Stars peeked through the clouds above, pale and flickering.
Still, the old man walked relentlessly.
