The road east bent through a cut in the ridge, worn by wagons and centuries, flanked by stone milestones that still carried faint grooves from older, sharper languages. Hearthfast’s watchers had not lied: the dust cloud rising ahead was too neat, too purposeful, for farmers or pilgrims.
Lena led their small band to the ridge’s edge, crouching low behind scrub and pine. The Unsung scouts melted into the trees around them, bows drawn, spears ready. Ysra stood to Lena’s left, her mouth scar cutting deeper when she frowned.
Seven wagons crawled up the road, their axles groaning. Each wagon carried crates banded in silver and marked with the Magister’s sigils. Between them walked men in lacquer black, knives glinting. But it wasn’t the wagons that held the road’s rhythm.
It was the man in fr
