The courtyard filled before dawn with the sound of hooves and wheels.
Breath steamed in the cold air as drivers tightened harnesses, traders barked orders, and the first caravan prepared to leave under the Tristan Mendez venture's banner.
Tristan stood on the manor steps with his cloak fastened high at his throat and a ledger clutched in one hand. He tried to look steady, but his stomach turned.
This was not a trial. Not a handful of wagons stopping overnight. This was a caravan entrusted to them from start to finish—manor passing through the warded North road to Greystone Pass' storehouse and waystation.
Shannon joined him and his presence alone seemed to settle the noise in the yard. Guards straightened, merchants stopped muttering.
"You look pale," Shannon murmured.
"I'm fine," Tristan said too quickly.
"You're worried."
