[Intro]
[Boot heels and frame drum turn the road rhythm into a rough waltz.]
Left past the gallows, right past the mill,
Down where the crows will not drink from the rill.
Ink made a river, then swallowed the track—
The map knew the road, but it wanted them back.

[Verse 1]
Mara took front where the arrows might fly,
Brunna took rear with one narrowed eye.
Lark walked the middle and wagered a tune
That they would reach shelter by rise of the moon.
Veyr checked each milestone for infernal script,
Tomas kept both of his hands tightly gripped.
Five different footfalls, one mud-heavy tramp,
Five private reasons to mistrust the map.

[Chorus]
We are five against the map, five against the mile,
Five who trade a warning for a hard-earned smile.
Mark us by the bootprint, judge us by the gap—
No road gets to own us; we are five against the map.
When the ink draws a coffin and the compass points behind,
We follow living footsteps, not the hunger in its lines.

[Verse 2]
At noon they found wheat cut clean at the root,
A dinner laid steaming with no hand or boot.
Five bowls of broth and five chairs in a row,
Each carved with a secret no stranger should know.
Mara’s bore “Oathbreaker,” Veyr’s bore “Debtor,”
Brunna’s said “Sister,” though none there had met her.
Lark’s chair rhymed “singer” with “traitor” in red,
While Tomas found nothing—just grain in the wood instead.

[Chorus]
We are five against the map, five against the mile,
Five who trade a warning for a hard-earned smile.
Mark us by the bootprint, judge us by the gap—
No road gets to own us; we are five against the map.
When the ink draws a coffin and the compass points behind,
We follow living footsteps, not the hunger in its lines.

[Instrumental]
[Hurdy-gurdy circles the waltz while each instrument enters for one character-length phrase.]

[Verse 3]
Brunna split every chair with the heel of her axe,
Veyr burned the splinters and studied the cracks.
Tomas made rain from a cloud no wider than bread,
Washing the names from the table’s head.
Mara gave half of her ration to Lark,
Who had joked through the noon but fell mute after dark.
They shared no promises, titles or clasp—
Only five hands pulling one cart from the marsh.

[Bridge]
The map drew a sixth shape walking in their train,
No face in the parchment, no footprint in rain.
[Veyr]
“My patron.”
[Mara]
“A spy.”
[Lark]
“The last word that refuses to rhyme.”
[Tomas]
“Whatever it is, it is not on our map.”

[Final Chorus]
We are five against the map, five against the mile,
Five who make a shelter from a broken lintel pile.
Mark us by the bootprint, judge us by the gap—
No road gets to own us; we are five against the map.
Let the ink draw a coffin; let the compass lose its mind,
We follow one another when the road erases signs.
Five voices round the campfire, five blades within the lap—
And one unseen companion walking just beyond the map.

[Outro]
At dawn the parchment showed a stair,
Descending where no hill stood there.
Five shadows crossed the frost-bent grass;
A sixth moved first and let them pass.