The next morning broke with frost crisp on the grass and a pale sky that promised a clear day.
The road announced itself before it appeared—harness rings chiming, wagon wheels groaning, drivers calling to their teams.
Inside the waystation hall, Tristan gathered the circle before the first bowls went out. Mira had her map and chalk, Eira a clean apron and her leather pouch of herbs, Marla three ladles lined on the counter like weapons—one "backup," just in case.
"We'll keep it simple," Tristan said. "Yesterday we earned without waste. Today we do it again, but sharper. Three checks on every lane, two signatures on every ledger line, and no guesswork."
"Guesswork is for cooking," Marla said.
"Guesswork is also how portions get out of hand," Eira countered.
"Fine," Marla sighed. "Measured guesswork."
Therese entered briskly, hair pinned tight, stylus ready. "I printed more claim strips at dawn. The clerk pre-stamped the wax. No one will wait because we ran out of paper."
