Morning doesn’t soften anything.
It just drags the rot into clearer light—like the sun is a witness that can’t be bribed.
The Waystation Caravan is already moving when I step into the strategy wagon. Wheels whisper over packed earth, the whole line of wagons rolling in disciplined silence. Neutral Oathkeeper sigils glow faint along the frame—wards that don’t fight, exactly. They refuse. Refuse tracking. Refuse forced jurisdiction. Refuse Concord binding without consent.
It’s the closest thing Valtheris has to safe.
And it still feels like a lie.
Orion Thorne is at the map table with his hands braced against the edge, shoulders tense like he’s holding back thunder. Silas Veyr is half a shadow by the window, watching the horizon like the horizon owes him money. Magnus Rook stands with h
