In the morning, Cassian came in without knocking, dropped a sack and a stapled report on the table, and was already talking before the dust even settled: the escort list had been tampered with by a scribe named Rolan—for two gold coins and a full flask; the resin in the seal came from a traveling merchant who usually appears near the northern border. The guy’s already sitting in the cellar, not a hero, won’t last long. If we want, we can set out before noon and by afternoon we’ll know who sent him.
Darius just nodded: we leave. No rest, full gear at the gates. And when I looked at him, I saw he was already stacking up the next steps in his head—no questions, only orders. I hate that style, but I swallowed it this time.
In the courtyard, the wagon was ready, horses harnessed. Cassian was
