As the guard pulled the canvas flap aside, Garron moved without haste to Daisy’s side. He ran his hand along her flank, fingers brushing the coarse hair in a soothing motion. He leaned close to her ear and murmured something soft and meaningless, the tone calm and reassuring.

  Then his fingers found the tender curve high on her haunch.

  He pinched hard.

  Daisy erupted.

  She lunged sideways with a piercing whinny, her powerful hindquarters swinging wide as she reacted more to the sudden surprise than the pain. The wagon jolted violently, wheels grinding against the dirt. The second horse reared half a step and jerked against the traces. Wood groaned under the strain. Metal fittings snapped taut. A thick cloud of dust burst upward, swallowing the lower half of the caravan in a choking haze.

  The guard stumbled back, one hand flying to the hilt of his sword as hooves struck dangerously close to his boots. The flap, half-pulled, flapped wildly in the commotion before snapping back against the canvas.

  “Easy! Daisy, easy, that’s right, easy girl!” Garron shouted, stumbling backward as though genuinely startled. He grabbed for the reins, boots sliding as he braced himself against the sudden chaos.

  In the swirl of dust and divided attention, no one saw the large shape slip low and silent from beneath the opposite side of the wagon and vanish into the shadowed interior through the briefly gaping flap.

  The dust began to settle. Daisy’s panic ebbed into restless stamping. Garron tightened his grip and steadied the team with practiced hands. When the guard stepped forward again, brushing dust from his armour, coughing once, Garron moved to the rear of the wagon and secured the flap firmly, tying it with quick, sure knots.

  He leaned close to the canvas as he worked.

  “Good job,” he whispered.

  “What?” the guard demanded sharply.

  Garron straightened and turned with an easy grin. “Do a good job, Daisy,” he said loudly, patting the horse’s flank. “Taking me back to Stonehaven.”

  The guard eyed him for another long moment, suspicion lingering, before finally stepping aside.

  Garron climbed onto the bench, settled into the worn seat as if nothing unusual had occurred, gathered the reins, and gave the guard a polite nod. With a gentle flick of his wrists, he guided the caravan forward down the main road and through the gate.

  The wheels creaked over the threshold stones, and the horses found their rhythm once clear of the town. Rivermark shrank behind them, swallowed by the trees and the bend in the road.

  They had not gone far when the distant thunder of hooves reached Garron’s ears.

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  A small column of Corvessian guards came into view at a hard gallop, cloaks snapping behind them, lances upright and steady. Dust trailed in their wake as they rode straight for Rivermark.

  Garron kept his expression loose. As they passed, he tipped his chin in greeting and offered an easy smile. His horses continued at their steady walk, heads bobbing in quiet contrast to the urgency rushing the other way.

  The guards did not slow.

  They vanished down the road toward town.

  Garron watched until the last flicker of steel disappeared beyond the bend. Then he snapped the reins lightly and clicked his tongue.

  “Trot.”

  The horses responded at once, hooves quickening into a brisk rhythm. The wagon jolted and then settled as speed increased.

  Garron leaned his head back slightly and spoke toward the canvas behind him. “Best stay out of sight, lass. No telling what eyes are on this road today.”

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  There was a rustle from within the covered rear.

  “Why did they not stop you?” Zelgra’s voice carried forward, low but steady.

  “They’re not the King’s guard,” Garron replied. “They have no authority to search me. That’s the official word.” He shifted on the bench, eyes scanning the tree line. “If we were further from town with no witnesses, I’d wager the law would become something simpler. Might makes right. It would be my word against Corvessian guards. Who do you think a court would believe?”

  “Sounds like money makes right,” Zelgra said.

  Garron gave a short breath that might have been a laugh. “Better we speed things up and get you on your way as fast as possible. Tell me, lass, why are you on the run?”

  There was a pause before she answered.

  “I was ordered to alter paperwork,” Zelgra said. “Large shipments of ore were recorded as smaller loads. Enough that the numbers would not trigger attention from the crown. The excess passed through without scrutiny. The profit was significant.”

  “And you saw none of it,” Garron said.

  “Not a coin,” she replied. “I filled out the ledgers because refusal meant losing my position. Now that the crown has noticed discrepancies, someone must take the fall. Osmund has chosen me.”

  Garron’s jaw tightened.

  “But how did they manage it?” he asked. “Are there not crown inspectors at the docks accounting for all ore that comes in?”

  “This was not imported ore,” Zelgra said. “It came from local mines. Smaller operations. House Corvessa controls many of them. They are inspected, but not daily. The inspectors are stretched thin. Some are simply bribed. Corvessa would be paid a handsome premium for unchecked shipments.”

  Garron nodded slowly. “The crown does not monitor resources only for tax.”

  “No,” Zelgra said. “They monitor for threats. If someone were gathering enough material quietly, they could build or arm an army before anyone realized.”

  “The Clawborn,” Garron said.

  “Exactly. One would think the spy network would uncover such movements regardless.”

  Garron flicked the reins again, urging the horses to maintain their pace. “In times like these, spies are stretched thin as well. Too many fires. Not enough water.”

  “The paperwork matters because these mines are not directly tied into the kingdom’s system,” Zelgra continued. “Structured mines report automatically. Gathering mines do not. Their output is only tracked once deposited. If the ore is loaded directly onto a cart from the mine and delivered elsewhere, only physical inspection can trace it.”

  “And if that inspection never happens,” Garron said quietly, “the numbers never exist.”

  The road stretched ahead of them, winding north beneath a canopy that grew thicker with each passing mile.

  The Corvessian riders thundered through the gates of Rivermark without slowing.

  Dust followed them into the square as their horses stamped and tossed their heads. The gate guards straightened at once, hands hovering near hilts as the lead rider reined in sharply.

  “Where is she?” the head guard demanded.

  The gate guards exchanged a look. “Who?”

  “The Droll who runs the ore table.”

  One of the guards gestured toward the market. “She was here earlier.”

  The Corvessian riders wheeled their mounts and pushed into the square, scattering merchants and customers alike. They dismounted near Zelgra’s table. The space stood abandoned. The crates were still there, but the table attendant was gone.

  One of the guards crouched and ran a hand along the ground, fingers brushing disturbed dust where heavy sacks had recently rested.

  “Is she still here?” he asked. “Or has she fled?”

  The search began in earnest.

  They moved through Rivermark in disciplined pairs, knocking hard on inn doors, pushing into taverns, questioning shopkeepers with clipped voices that left little room for comfort. They did not overturn tables or draw blades, but their presence filled each space with the threat of it. Patrons lowered their eyes. Shopkeepers answered carefully. A stable boy swore he had seen her earlier. A baker claimed ignorance.

  Almost an hour passed beneath rising tension.

  The head guard stood once more near the center of town, jaw tight, gaze sweeping over the square. No Droll.

  “Look, the Droll’s hammer is gone,” one of his men said. “She’s probably gone.”

  The head guard closed his eyes briefly, replaying earlier movements in his mind. Then something sharpened.

  “The courier,” he said.

  Several heads turned.

  “He would be beyond town limits by now. Away from prying eyes.” His gaze fixed on the northern road. “No witnesses.”

  The men mounted without another word.

  Hooves struck the dirt hard as they rode out, pushing their horses into a gallop the moment they cleared the gate.

  Toward Stonehaven.

  Toward the bend in the road.

  The forest thickened as Garron guided the caravan along the familiar stretch of road. When the bend came into view, he slowed the team and brought them to a halt near the place where he had once watched Riley disappear into the trees.

  The river murmured faintly somewhere beyond the undergrowth.

  He climbed down from the bench and walked to the rear of the wagon, loosening the ties on the canvas.

  Zelgra stepped out carefully, her boots landing solidly on the forest floor. She adjusted the strap of her pack and reached back to steady her hammer.

  “Thank you,” she began.

  Garron raised a hand, stopping her.

  “We’ve known each other a long time,” he said. “You are no thief.”

  The words settled between them, simple and certain.

  He glanced toward the tree line. “Riley said it was about a six-hour walk from here. Near the river. If you keep it on your left and follow the natural rise, you will find higher ground. That is where one would build.”

  Zelgra nodded, committing each detail to memory.

  “I dropped her off here,” Garron continued. “If you move with purpose, you have a chance.”

  The forest ahead stood quiet, dense and watchful.

  After thanking Garron again, Zelgra tightened her grip on the strap across her shoulder. Then, without another word, she turned and stepped into the trees.