The morning air was sharp with frost when the first wagons lined up at the manor gates.
Merchants wrapped in heavy cloaks stamped their feet for warmth while guards checked wheels and oxen yokes.
Mira stood by the gate, a bundle of wardstones strapped across her chest, her hands already smudged with chalk and ash.
Shannon's wolves were posted in pairs, silver-armored and watchful, their presence enough to quiet even the most skeptical trader.
Tristan had barely slept the night before. His hair was tied back hastily, with ink still clinging to his fingers from the ledgers he had studied until dawn.
But when he stepped onto the courtyard, golden eyes steady, no one could mistake him for a hesitant boy. He looked every bit the master of the venture.
Tara watched from the steps, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She said nothing, but Tristan felt her gaze like a tether.
"First wagon," Mira called, her voice brisk and firm.
