Evening settles differently inside the Waystation Caravan.
The motion never stops—slow wheels over old roads, suspension groaning like a beast that knows its duty—but the world inside shifts into a quieter rhythm. Lanterns dim. Voices lower. Oath-sigils along the beams glow faint blue, recording every sworn word spoken within these walls.
Safety here isn’t walls.
It’s witnesses.
I sit on the narrow bench by the window, bare feet tucked beneath me, watching the dark countryside slide past in long blurs of shadow and silver frost. My body aches in that deep, honest way that comes from being pushed hard and held there—mind and muscle both wrung out.
Orion didn’t go easy.
He never does.
Every scenario today came like a storm front—rapid, layered, unforgiving. “You don’t get to react,” h
