The sun was sinking into the western horizon by the time Jim and his group reached the gates of Eastend. The air was thick with dust, kicked up by weary horses, and the scent of damp earth lingered from a recent drizzle. The wooden gates, reinforced with iron bands, stood tall before them, manned by vigilant guards clad in the navy-blue surcoats of Eastend’s troops.
But there was no challenge, no demand for identification. The moment the gatekeepers spotted Gristie among the arrivals, recognition dawned in their eyes, and they stepped aside without a word. She was one of their own. More than that—she was their vice-captain.
As they passed through, a wave of relief swept over Gristie. Her breath trembled as she exhaled, her heart pounding from the weight of the mission’s success. They had
