The road to Greystone Pass cut through hills and forest, long enough that merchants often slept in their wagons, wrapped in cloaks, their goods exposed to damp air and prowling thieves.
It was here that the first Mendez waystation had been built—stone walls, a sturdy roof, and a stable fenced with fresh timber.
It wasn't polished—the plaster rough in places, the shutters stiff, but the hearth smoked warmly, and the cots inside were lined with straw and wool blankets.
Tristan stood in the yard, cloak drawn tight, waiting as the first wagons rolled up the road. Shannon was beside him, arms folded, while Mira walked the perimeter, checking the faint blue wardstones she had set into the earth.
"This will be the hardest to prove," Mira muttered. "Food, beds, warmth—you can't ward off a spoiled stew."
Tristan's jaw set. "Then we'll make sure the stew doesn't spoil. Therese will have to monitor it."
