The road was dust and ruts, the sort of path that chewed through wagon wheels and boots alike. Selira adjusted the strap of her coat, the heavy brown fabric brushing against her legs, and glanced over her shoulder at her lumbering companion.
"Keep it steady, Bram," she called, half out of habit.
The automaton didn't answer — it never did — but the squeak and groan of rusted joints carried down the road like a reply. Bram was built for war, once. Broad-chested, armored plating dulled by years of weather and dents, its frame stood a head taller than any man. Now, instead of swinging halberds or carrying banners, it hauled sacks of dried barley and crates of lamp oil across the countryside, obedient as a mule.
A mule that occasionally leaked steam and needed his knee joints hammered back into shape every other week.
Selira smirked at the thought. Brains and beauty, that's what people say. But they never add: also babysits an ancient pile of bolts.
She liked the quiet of the road. Not peace — peace was a myth these days, with two kingdoms gnawing at each other's borders — but quiet. The distant boom of artillery, the smoke curling on the horizon, the sight of soldiers' camps pressed into farmland… all of it was background. Out here, among ruts and weeds, she could almost pretend her life was her own.
Almost.
The creak of Bram's load shifted, and Selira frowned. She jogged back to check his cargo harness, ponytail bouncing with the motion. Sure enough, a strap had loosened, threatening to spill half her stock onto the dirt.
"Saints above, Bram, you'd lose your head if I didn't—" She caught herself, sighing. Talking to him was pointless, but habit made it feel less lonely. She tugged the strap tight and gave his chest plating a pat. The metal was warm from the sun, the etching of some long-forgotten unit insignia barely visible under scratches.
"There. You'd think a girl with knight's blood in her veins would be somewhere glorious, not fixing straps on a glorified wheelbarrow."
Bram's gears clicked softly, almost like a snort.
Selira chuckled. "Don't sass me."
The road bent ahead, leading toward Harrowfield — a small town that hadn't yet been swallowed by the war. She had trade papers signed by the mayor himself, and if luck held, she could unload her barley and lamp oil before the soldiers arrived to requisition everything.
But luck was a fickle partner.
From the hillcrest, she spotted them: three men, rough-looking, standing in the middle of the road with mismatched armor and easy grins. Bandits, or deserters. Either way, trouble.
Selira's stomach tightened. Here it comes.
She slowed her pace and muttered to Bram, "Remember: we're merchants, not heroes." Then louder, with forced cheer: "Gentlemen! Fine morning for travel, isn't it?"
The tallest stepped forward, eyeing her coat, her boots, and finally the crates on Bram's back. His grin widened.
"Oh, it's a fine morning," he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his rusty sword. "Finer still when fortune brings us gifts."
Selira sighed through her nose. The road was dust and ruts, yes, but it was never dull.