Shadows in the Smuggler's Cave
ChromeShifter441 playing Thundarion
Story So Far
The protagonist rappels down Greymoor Cliffs to a hidden cave marked by a circle-and-slash symbol connected to Vethara, finding a recently used smuggler's cache with a warm fire pit and a folded parchment on a crate before detecting movement deeper inside. A damaged parchment beneath a river stone proves illegible except for the wax symbol, and a still human-sized silhouette watches from the dark while the only exit is a ledge forty feet above. A silent masked figure in dark clothing moves cautiously toward the protagonist, who stumbles, drops the parchment, and scrapes their hand on the rock. The figure notes the bleeding but keeps their dagger sheathed, warns that salt in the stone will cause infection, and observes the protagonist holding the circle-and-slash parchment. The figure reacts tensely to the empty spot on a crate where a personal communication item had been left, suspects the protagonist is either a courier or someone who arrived by mistake, and offers a cloth to bandage the bleeding hand while noting the damaged wax seal has destroyed the note's key details. The protagonist ties the cloth around their hand and reveals the seal showed only a circle and slash with all other writing destroyed; the figure states someone visited hours ago and left the note intentionally for a specific person, then asks the protagonist's name or connection. When the protagonist mentions Rinfir, a mage-turned-smuggler, the figure reacts sharply and reveals Rinfir died three weeks ago, warning that using the name may have compromised the cave and put them both at risk near the only exit.
A sharp whistle signals someone on the ledge outside, the rappel rope sways unnaturally, and a noise from deeper in the cave prompts the figure to draw a dagger before a stone strikes the protagonist's injured hand. The protagonist and the masked figure realize two enemies are present, one on the rope above and one inside the passage, both of whom arrived before the protagonist. They debate extinguishing the lantern that reveals their position but provides light, and the protagonist stops the figure from throwing a stone when a cautious, inexperienced person descends the rope slowly. A young courier woman descends into the cave and is immediately confronted by a crossbow man who accuses her of being late and orders the protagonist and the masked figure to drop their weapons. The masked figure hesitates, then drops a stone; the crossbow man steps aside and places a lantern between himself and the shadows; the protagonist drops a bloodied dagger revealing a fresh wound; the crossbow man approaches and demands information about Rinfir while the courier woman braces on the rope. The protagonist signals the masked figure, who extinguishes the lantern and instructs the protagonist to escape through a gap behind the second crate as the courier woman prepares to intervene.
In total darkness the protagonist navigates the narrow passage by touch past crates while the crossbow man and courier woman argue about noise risking a collapse. The protagonist hides wounded and unarmed, sensing a calm waiting presence ahead, until a loose stone clicks and the creature attacks, striking the protagonist and knocking them down while the crossbow man shouts, metal clatters, and the courier woman screams from above. The shadowy masked figure silently pulls the protagonist upright and warns the creature remains between them and safety; the figure swings the lantern base at the creature, which moves toward them, then pauses when the courier woman signals light outside. The protagonist grasps the heavy iron lantern base near their left foot with the wounded hand useless, strikes the creature but loses the lantern base, falls injured, and the creature emits a low grinding sound while the crossbow man fires at it and advances toward him as the courier woman screams. The shadowy figure pulls the protagonist aside; the creature moves over the fallen crossbow man; the figure signals the protagonist to navigate the narrow gap left open and move carefully toward the entrance.
The protagonist moves swiftly past the creature to the cave entrance where faint light reveals crates and a fire pit, the shadowy figure following silently. The courier woman hangs from the rope above and offers information about a ledge and escape route in exchange for an unnamed trade; the figure readies a dagger as a distant creature stirs. The courier woman demands a small oilskin-wrapped item from the man in the passage; the protagonist uses flint and steel to strike a light, revealing the oilskin package near the crates rather than on the fallen figure. The protagonist retrieves the small dense waxed-cloth package despite the injured hand, the courier woman takes it silently, and directs them to an east ledge twelve feet up with a hidden handhold before climbing. The protagonist and the masked figure exit the cave onto a cold windy coastal cliff; the protagonist climbs carved handholds on a narrow rock shelf while the courier woman has already ascended and a rope hangs by a skiff below. The shadowy figure moves toward the rope and the skiff while the protagonist climbs toward solid ground despite the throbbing infected hand.
A wounded climber struggles up the cliff watching the courier woman descend swiftly to the skiff below, then hides in a carved stone recess when a scraping sound and a shadow appear above the overhang. A broad-shouldered older man in a dark coat with a crossbow at his hip stands at the top, having watched since the ledge; he notes the courier woman has left with the package but states the protagonist knows its contents and sender. The man reveals a small wrapped item and asks whether the protagonist saw a secret name on the document; the protagonist pleads for help with the worsening infected hand and the man, identified as Eldric, gives directions to a nearby village healer and a pack animal to ride while he keeps the horse and maintains distance. The narrator follows Eldric north along a coastal track through scrubland to a stone cabin marked by woodsmoke; at the cabin a middle-aged woman in a healer's apron opens the door and urges the protagonist inside while Eldric secures the pack animal and advises honesty about the wound.
The healer guides the protagonist to a chair, prepares a herbal remedy, and examines the badly damaged hand with torn swollen skin, bruising, and signs of infection from salt water and stone. The healer applies a nettle-scented paste to a discolored line on the wrist, notes a woman who travels from the cliffs uses that path, and quietly asks whether Eldric brought the protagonist personally, remarking this is unusual. The healer ties the bandage, gives medicine for infection, instructs the protagonist about a back door for escape, and tells Eldric the healing will take time; she also mentions a courier woman who stays at a mill in Ashford two miles north. The protagonist quickly packs a clay bottle, dons a cloak, grips a walking staff, and slips out the back door into cold air past a goat while Eldric calls time from the front yard. Moving swiftly along a frozen path aided by the staff, the protagonist reaches a narrow bridge where the injured courier woman sits blocking the way with a satchel; they exchange guarded words about the frozen road and their shared origin from the cliffs before a distant horse's hoof sound alerts them both.
The protagonist warns the courier woman they must leave quickly due to a hostile follower, notices her spreading wound, and she directs them toward a gap in the treeline along a stream for cover as hooves approach. They hide in the alders as a rider approaches but does not pursue; the courier reveals a small wrapped object and the rider reads a note then leaves. The courier woman, wounded and pale, insists she can walk to the mill and urges the protagonist to stay close as she leaves the treeline, moving with shallow breaths toward a mill with a cracked shutter and thin chimney smoke. She slows near a frost-covered footbridge, her boot catches a frozen rut, and a plank shifts beneath her weight; the protagonist catches her and carries her carefully across despite wrist pain. At the mill a shadowy figure opens the heavy timber door and leads them inside to a dim room with a fire and bedroll; the courier woman remains conscious while the protagonist carefully places the wrapped object into the satchel and helps her lie down as the shadowy figure applies a cloth to her side.
The shadowy figure efficiently bandages the courier woman's injury near the hearth, then quietly leaves toward the mill door but pauses when questioned and reveals a folded paper with the name Erst Quin, someone who can safely transport the woman and her satchel, warning that riders are being held at the ridge. The courier woman explains Quin operates a northern ferry between Ashford and ridge settlements, is secretive, and warns the mill is vulnerable; Quin's dock is a mile east and active before dawn. The courier woman assesses her injury as stable but urgent, asks whether the clay bottle still contains its contents, and insists they leave immediately as a lantern's light nears outside. The protagonist gives the courier woman the clay bottle to drink cautiously; she swallows it, and they slip out a low rear door onto a narrow frozen path beside a stream, moving east along the treeline as a horse snorts outside and a woman in a grey coat enters the mill. A figure identified as Aldric Voss approaches along the eastern path without a lantern; the courier woman grabs the protagonist's arm at the sight of him; Voss stops at the dock approach, silently dominates the dock worker, produces and tucks away a folded paper, and begins scanning the riverbank without seeing the protagonist and courier woman hidden between the pilings, the wrapped object still in the satchel.
The protagonist gives the courier woman dark cloth and raises a hood; both sink between the pilings until Voss looks past the shed, speaks to the dock worker, and the mooring line is untied. The courier woman says they will take the east track to Quin's backup skiff under the footbridge while Voss boards; both move low along the shed wall with Voss's back to the bank. They reach the footbridge where a tethered flat-bottomed skiff with oars waits under the alders; she climbs in, the protagonist unties the rope, pushes off, and rows east across the river while she watches the shore and no pursuit comes. The skiff scrapes the far gravel bank; the protagonist's wrist still aches, the courier woman still holds her side, and the wrapped object remains in the satchel. At the east bank landing the courier woman states the delivery will be completed and the protagonist agrees; they walk north on the road to Ashford together, the wrapped object in the protagonist's satchel and her side still bandaged.
On the frozen north road a southbound wagon appears; the protagonist raises a staff to stop it, the driver confirms an empty bed heading back through Ashford from an early market run, and both climb
Chapter 1
Midday brought the traveler to Dunnholt, a small crossroads waystation with a guild-marked building on its single main street. A man outside the grain store said the guild board had two unclaimed postings and nodded toward the scales sign; the traveler entered a plain dim hall, crossed the echoing stone floor, and approached an ink-stained clerk at a desk beside an open ledger. The clerk noticed the wrapped wrist, unpinned two papers, and laid out a missing grain shipment east of town and fence repairs at Brek's farm north of town; the shipment posting required following the route, asking questions, and reporting back without confrontation, while the fence work had to be done before the next freeze. The traveler signed both postings in the ledger, stepped into the cold, walked north, and reached a low-walled farmstead with a sagging eastern fence and a brown cow grazing outside it.
At the farmhouse a broad-shouldered woman with flour on her forearms, Maret, confirmed the guild had sent the traveler and that he knew fence work, then directed him to the barn where Brek showed him three replacement posts stacked inside the east wall and an iron bar and spade by the door. The traveler made four trips to the fence line, worked through frozen clay with the iron bar using the good hand and the wrapped wrist only to steady, and set three new posts plumb in packed winter clay. He re-strung the wire from the intact far section to the road gate, tested each post until all three held, then wired the sagging gate shut with an old tie to keep the brown cow in for the night. Brek came out, rocked each post, approved the work, and invited the traveler inside; Maret set out a bowl, bread, and clean linen, and Brek sat across the table.
By the fire, the traveler produced the ridge road posting, which read "Unclaimed. Ridge Road. No takers." Brek said three men from Dunnholt had taken that road in two months and only two returned, described the road as narrow with two sharp drops on the north side and treacherous with ice, and named Pol as the grain carter whose wagon never arrived and Cael as the second man who came back and now drank at the workers' house in the mill district most evenings near the back wall. Brek said to leave before first light because the ridge was worse when afternoon ice started to shift, and Maret told the traveler to treat the wrist before sleep and leave before the town woke. Maret offered the dry straw tick in the loft and a folded blanket; Brek banked the fire.
Before full light the traveler woke in the loft, heard Brek and Maret below, and overheard Brek tell Maret that a limping woman in a grey coat had gone north past the fence line on the ridge road before sunrise three times that week. Coming down the ladder, the traveler reported this to Brek, who admitted he had seen the same thing for three mornings but left it out of the posting. Maret told the traveler to sit and eat first. Over breakfast Maret placed the workers' house a quarter mile south by a visible chimney, Brek confirmed the man was Cael and that he drank there most evenings near the back, and Maret warned Cael would not want to talk. Brek also named Greta in the mill district, who sold remedies from a front room behind a faded blue door on the south side of the mill yard, wanted coin and rarely bartered, and would be up early.
At Greta's shop the traveler unwrapped a swollen, discolored wrist cut that a fat-and-bark salve had only held back; Greta pressed beside it, noted red tracking along the edge, and said two more days without proper treatment would put it beyond a farmhouse jar. She treated the wound with a dark bottle of infection dressing and a wax-sealed jar of darker salve, bound the hand with linen, charged four coins, and instructed the traveler to keep it dry, avoid wet work or heavy gripping for two days, change the dressing the next day, return if the red line remained, sleep and eat warm twice daily, loosen the wrap if fingers went cold or numb, and use the jar that night and the next. Greta also said Cael had come to her three weeks earlier at night with frostbite on his left hand and a badly closed cut on his jaw, paid double, said nothing about where he had been, and was frightened rather than dangerous, which mattered when someone sat across from him. The traveler packed the pine resin salve jar and a fresh linen strip into the satchel alongside the willow-bark jar and dark bottle, paid four coins, and stepped into the cold yard.
The traveler crossed to an alehouse marked by a painted cup, paid for bean pottage and dark bread, and ate slowly by the hearth. Near noon a red-faced boy burst in reporting a fight in the yard; outside, two of Harren's men held the grey-bearded carter Pol on one knee beside his half-loaded wagon and a split grain sack. The traveler intervened, had Pol directed to retrieve a receipt from under the wagon's left bench board in oilcloth, and the paper marked with a date and a seal proved the milling fee had been paid. The broader of Harren's men walked back toward the mill without answering, his companion followed, and the watchers dispersed. Pol, who hauled grain from ridge farms to the mill district two or three times a month for eight years, confirmed Brek had named him, agreed to help approach Cael that evening, and arranged to meet at the workers' house door at the second hour past dusk; Pol would go in first, the traveler would enter after and sit where Cael could see him but not feel cornered, and Pol would name the traveler as a carter from the Ashford run.
At the second hour past dusk the traveler entered the crowded workers' house, took a wall seat, and caught Pol's confirming nod from across the room where Cael sat at the back wall. While Pol talked low with Cael, the traveler changed the dressing by the fire, finding the red line gone; he worked rendered fat and willow bark into the cut, sealed it with pine resin, and wrapped it with fresh linen. When Pol named the traveler as the man from the Ashford run, the traveler crossed over and sat across from Cael, who said flatly, "You're going up the ridge." Cael said Pol's man went over the drop when a cart wheel caught hidden ice, that Cael had been twenty yards back, heard movement in the scrub above the overhang, and came back. Cael fixed the danger at the second bend past the split oak where the road narrowed, warned that ice formed under the overhang and that something might be on that road, and said not to stop under the overhang or anywhere on that stretch. The traveler slid a coin to Cael; Cael tucked it away and stopped watching the door.
Before dawn the traveler left the dark workers' house with the guildmaster's sealed paper and climbed the ridge road east as the town dropped behind under stars, the guildmaster's commission being to find what was stopping the road and report back, not clear it. Near the first bend the traveler slowed, spotted inward-bent branches marking a recently used path in the upper scrub, and continued to the split oak forty yards from the second bend, resting a hand on bark that showed two old rubbed patches low on the trunk and a newer scrape across a silver lightning wound. Two steps past the oak a familiar prickle told the traveler something above the overhang was watching; scanning the upper slope, he found a large dark shape lying flat between two pale stones with scored marks like the worn bark on the oak. Stepping out from the oak's shadow toward the frozen rut beneath the overhang, the traveler saw a canvas-wrapped, rope-tied bundle wedged in the rock face beside a splintered cart-wheel spoke; the shape above settled, turned its head, and made a low sound. Keeping an even pace and not stopping, the traveler passed under the overhang, confirmed the shape as broad, dark-furred, and pale-eyed, and turned back toward Dunnholt with a name for the silence and a shape for the report.
In thin amber afternoon light the traveler entered the guild hall; the murmur stopped, every face turned, and the man in the grey wool coat rose by the desk and asked how far past the split oak. The traveler reported the creature above the overhang as bearlike with white eyes, not a man or true animal, that it took the unwary at the patch of ice and had let the traveler pass because he kept moving. The guildmaster shook hands, opened the ledger, wrote, and said warnings would be posted and carters advised on pace and route so the road could be managed. He set three silver coins on the desk beside a warm cup of plain fired clay, said the canvas bundle and cart spoke confirmed what had happened to Harren's man and resolved uncertainty about the other two, and the words the traveler brought back began passing from mouth to mouth through the room. The guildmaster capped the inkwell, set the quill down, told the traveler to sit, and the sealed paper remained in the satchel with the commission delivered and answered in the ledger. The traveler wrapped both hands around the warm cup by the fire; the ridge road ran east into the dark, known now and a little less dangerous.
Chapter 2
ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer woke grey and cold in Dunnholt’s guild hall, found the hand-cut healed to a pale seam at the cliff-road healer’s cabin, and was told to keep salve on it another week. With the sealed paper still in the satchel—its purpose now a loose end—ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer took the road south toward Ashford, planning a quiet entry and the root seller first rather than the southern gate or the healer’s room, because the courier woman had last been injured there with a shadowy rider close.
At East Bank Landing a broad-shouldered ferryman took two copper and poled the skiff across. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer entered Ashford unhurried among morning traffic. In the thin market square the Root Seller, ink-stained fingers sorting bundles, knew the return at once. The girl in the grey coat had stayed four more days for the leg, walked on the fifth morning, and left before the square opened with a heavier satchel, going north toward the warrens, not the gate. The dark-coated, face-wrapped asker had stopped coming around the lane two days earlier. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer paid two copper for yarrow and one silver for her silence and that she had never been seen, bought hard biscuit, dried meat, and salt with a last copper, and entered the warrens.
At a corner by a dripping eave ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer found the Courier Woman leaning on the wall, limp still present, satchel strained full, watching an opposite mouth. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer walked past without acknowledgment, ducked into a doorway, and saw a dark-coated figure half-hidden by timber, patient and still. The figure sidestepped to cut the north route; the Courier Woman went south hard without running; the figure followed at even distance. Both passed the doorway without seeing ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer. The follow was not a grab. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer trailed them through turns into a small courtyard and a roofed gap between workshops that smelled of sawdust and medicine.
Inside, the Courier Woman sat on a crate with her left trouser rolled, fresh bandaging exactly where the figure had pressed an injured side. The figure crouched checking the dressing—shared work, not threat. When the figure’s head came up and a hand dropped toward a dagger, ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer offered the willow-bark clay jar and the wax-sealed pine resin. The figure took both. They had been followed from the alley; the Courier Woman had seen the doorway. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer named the ridge road and Dunnholt and loose ends. The Courier Woman recognized the guild run and the sealed paper; she drew her own, identical dark-wax seal. Two papers, same stamp, different roads, both ordered to Aldric Voss at the northern ferry dock, unopened. Voss ran morning cargo and would be gone by midday. Someone had doubled the run so one would get through; two papers at once would tell a nervous man the people above him were nervous.
They agreed the Courier Woman would deliver her paper as the expected runner; the figure would watch the dock approach from the east by the riverside shed; ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer would watch the road side and make noise if anyone cut her off. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer’s paper stayed sealed. If she did not return in a quarter hour they would know. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer recovered both jars. The figure peeled east; ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer took a parallel alley. The Courier Woman reappeared from the dock mouth with satchel lighter, eyes finding ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer for half a second—done. The figure confirmed Voss took it without asking twice. Midday passed without blood. The figure’s wound was from the ridge road three nights back, marker stones moved, a bank in the dark; Greta’s salve and the offered jars had helped.
ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer broke the remaining seal. The half-sheet read that the eastern route was watched, not to use Quin’s Dock after the third day of the month, that Voss had been told the cargo was grain and did not know what he was moving, and to burn the paper if the runner did not arrive. The third day had passed; whatever moved that morning was already north. Burning changed nothing once read. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer gave the sheet to the figure, struck flint, and they burned it to ash ground under a boot. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer still wanted Voss about being trailed into Ashford before ever holding the note; the figure said Voss watched approaches when nervous and a tail meant he already knew a second runner was coming. The note would only have told Voss he was not trusted and might have made him more dangerous; it was for whoever came after him. The cave, parcel, mill, ridge, and doubled run had already been in motion for months. The three now knew more than they should.
The figure pulled the grey scarf down: a woman, older than her build, thin jaw, faded cut along one cheekbone. She named herself Senne. The Courier Woman named herself Lira. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer gave a name in return. Senne bound them that what was said stayed there—cargo, letter, Voss—and that they would walk out different ways and not look for each other unless it found them first. Voss would be gone within the hour. Senne left. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer offered Lira safe travels alone or a back watched while she finished healing. She had been moving alone since the mill and it had not gone well; she had a room above a tanner’s on the east side of the warrens paid through morning, dry, the woman downstairs not asking. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer accepted. They spent the night there—ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer on the boards under the open shutter, Lira on the tick, leg tight but swelling down, first unbroken sleep for both in a while.
At grey dawn they left east through the warrens. Voss and the east-road watchers were gone; the chain had been built so no single piece could see the whole, and tracking the shipment would need someone who had watched the north road before that day. Feigning ignorance meant more roads; the story was crazy enough that anyone told it either already knew or found the knower dangerous. Lira wanted home if it was still there—east of Dunnholt, twelve or fourteen houses in a fold between hills, well, smokehouse, Dara the bee-woman, her mother’s stone-and-timber house on the north end with the fire kept. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer had nowhere else to be and would travel with her. She warned she was not fast on the leg yet.
They bought a midday stop when her hitch worsened, then at a stone overhang past the southern gate ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer mashed yarrow into the infection dressing and poulticed under her bandaging. Warmer already. They walked the empty frost road east among bare oaks. At a woodcutter’s lean-to off the road they stopped for night; ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer took first watch by a small fire. Footsteps on the road—one set, no lantern, dark coat, hood, pack—passed north without looking. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer smothered the fire and woke Lira; they agreed the cart trail was too open after crossing powerful people. At first light they took the Low Ridge east of the road, slower and harder on her leg but without wagons or faces to remember, and came into Dunnholt from the field side. The roofline was still there.
On the main street Lira said the Ridge Road east started at the far end and her village was two hours on; ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer had said there was nowhere else to be. Voices from the mill district drew ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer to the Workers’ House on a pretext of provisions. Pol and Cael went quiet. Pol’s grain sacks from the ridge farms had a miller’s receipt saying they arrived and had not; Cael said a cart went over the Ridge Road drop two nights past with movement in the scrub above. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer pressed Cael: someone had waited for the cart; afterward a man in a dark coat, face wrapped, walked north calm; Cael had seen him twice since on the road, once the night before. ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer and Lira had seen the same figure pass the lean-to. The cart was a task, not a destination; north was uncharted and not for common folk selling stolen grain. The receipt was a lie so the loss would disappear; someone at or able to reach the mill had known the cart was not coming. Cael had no name or face, only unhurried movement and good fitted dark-leather boots barely worn at the heel—someone paid well, not finished.
Neither Pol nor Cael would join a hunt into the faelands. Pol named the signing miller Oswin at the loudest wheel, north end. Cael walked the Ridge Road twice a week and would send word to the Dunnholt guild board addressed to L, east of the crossroads, or urgent through Greta’s blue door south end of the mill yard. At Oswin’s mill the miller admitted signing for twelve sacks that never came; a dark-coated, face-wrapped man the night before had called it a guild matter, said the cart would be delayed but the receipt needed that morning’s date, and had the quiet that stopped asking. The ledger already held the entry; the ferry manifest would show no crossing. The man had asked which miller kept the quietest yard—someone had pointed him there.
ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer and Lira used a loud distraction at the Guild Hall postings board so ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer could read the ledger: the contract for the twelve sacks was logged under Harren’s Mill—the same mill whose men had had Pol on his knees over a split sack. In the tanner’s-yard gap they saw the grain-store worker speaking to a broad-chested man in a dark coat with the same quality barely-worn boots; the worker had seen them enter and leave the guild hall. The messenger walked north. At the Workers’ House Cael said a dark-coated man had spoken two words to Pol; Pol had taken the receipt and walked out the south gate without looking back. Oswin was still at the wheel. They reached him first. He produced a folded slip the dark-coated man had left—lamp-oil and accelerant smell, instruction to say he received, stored, and moved the twelve north, receipt confirming, say nothing further or be troubled, shown it would burn. A second smaller slip had slipped from the man’s coat three nights back unnoticed: in a different hurried hand, *Harren. Crossroads. Before the thaw. 7.* ChromeShifter441 the Wayfarer wrapped both notes in dark cloth beneath the jars.
They sat the alehouse as road-worn travelers. The barman warned a man in a dark coat had asked after two travelers—one with a staff, one with a bad leg—first at the grain store, then there; the barman had said he had seen nobody matching since morning. The messenger was drawing a circle. They chose Brek’s farm half a mile north past the fence line Harren’s men had no reason to walk, safer than Greta’s for word, Maret’s food if it stretched past the thaw. They left copper, walked north unhurried in grey midday light while the worker was not at his doorframe, and reached the farmstead. Maret let them in at a look at the leg and the cloak. Brek heard the ledger, Oswin’s receipt, the two slips, and the crossroads in a hand not Harren’s. Before the thaw—ten days, maybe less. They would stay in the loft, both of them, until they knew what seven meant. South, Harren’s Messenger still widened his circle; the crossroads waited; the thaw was coming. For now the fire held.
Chapter 3
This chapter is still unfolding...
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