Chapter 22: With Ember

By the third day out of Seville, the Empire's western trade road revealed its true face.

On the first day, there had been farmlands and villages. On the second, the farmlands gave way to scattered pastures. By the third, even the pastures were gone. The hills on either side of the road were rounded and low, worn down by wind and weather. The vegetation had receded from broadleaf trees to low shrubs, then to grey-green moss hugging the ground. The air turned dry—not harsh enough to sting, but enough to leave a thin layer of dust on collars and inside boots.

Vaste walked at the front of the column. Her pace was unhurried, but every step landed squarely on the compacted wheel ruts. The texture of the soil beneath her boots fed back through the soles—instinct, no thought required.

The three wagons followed about ten paces behind, maintaining fixed intervals. The draft horses had settled into the long-haul rhythm—steady hooves, heads nodding slightly with each stride. The lead driver sat on his wagon's shaft, reins loose across his lap, a chewed grass stem clamped between his teeth.

Simon walked on the opposite side of the column. His shield hung on his back, his mace tucked at his belt. That morning, when they'd set out, Vaste had taken point, her back to everyone, her gaze sweeping forward and to both flanks in a steady rhythm. The frequency and pattern of those sweeps were identical to how Simon himself had patrolled during his years in the knights—maybe even more thorough.

"Traveled this road before?" Simon asked. No name, no "you"—but Vaste knew he was talking to her.

"No."

"You don't look like a first-timer."

"Study the map. Prepare ahead, and the road reads itself."

Simon nodded and didn't press. That exchange alone had been enough to confirm what he'd suspected about the young woman.

Dierdre wasn't on the road. She stood atop a forty-foot cliff overlooking the route, her vantage covering about two miles of road ahead. From above, the wagons looked like three beetles crawling side by side.

Renda walked beside the third wagon, alongside the driver's apprentice—a boy of sixteen or seventeen, on his first long-haul trip, still carrying the excitement and nerves of departure in his face.

Renda was gesturing as he told a story.

"...and then the ogre came charging—this big, about three times the width of my scabbard. It was swinging a tree trunk. You know what I did? Sidestepped, let it slam into the cliff face behind it, then one swing—crack. Not the head. The knee. Ogre knees are their weak spot. Cut that, and they can't stand. Easy from there."

The apprentice had forgotten to drink from his waterskin. Renda hoisted his sword back onto his shoulder and added, "Of course, Captain Gerald chewed me out after that job. Said I shouldn't have charged in alone. He worries about me, really."

Simon glanced back. "I can hear you. That wasn't worry. That was not wanting you to knock over the client's cargo."

"That job went fine! Nothing broke! And they gave us a nice tip too!"

"The tip was because we fixed their broken wagon wheel during the trip," Simon said, turning forward, his voice steady. "Not because of your ogre."

Renda's grin widened. "The ogre was a free bonus, Uncle Simon. You don't complain about free stuff." The apprentice bit his lip, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Vaste walked at the front, but the wind carried their voices to her, word for word.

Glaze walked in the middle of the column. She continued her daily research—dandelion seeds, lizard tails—all subjects of study. Today she was studying the grass stem in the lead driver's mouth. She'd been staring at his profile for about two minutes when he finally felt the back of his neck prickle, pulled the stem from his mouth, and tossed it to the roadside.

"Why did you stop chewing it?"

"It's not food. Just something to chew on."

"Why chew it?"

"Better than having your mouth empty."

Glaze tilted her head as usual, considered this, and asked no further questions.

---

By midafternoon, a series of low whinnies came from the bushes by the roadside. A packhorse, its shoe missing and its reins tangled around a stunted pine, stood with its head low, breathing hard. Beside it stood a middle-aged man—short hair caked with dust, wood shavings and dried fruit stains on his apron, trying to pry a wagon wheel free with a broken axle. Another worker, equally grimy, stood beside him, hands on his knees, panting. Behind them, a wagon lay tipped into a muddy ditch, two casks of fruit wine and half a basket of dried fruit spilled across the ground.

The man saw the caravan approaching, tossed the broken axle aside, and waved toward the road—the kind of wave that said "I know you don't know me, but could you help?" Restrained, not expecting much.

Christopher walked to the front, cane in hand, and studied the overturned wagon for a moment. "Looks like it's been stuck a while. Axle broken?" The man nodded, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and said he was a dried fruit merchant traveling from Greyvor to Melros. The previous evening, he'd swerved to avoid a coyote crossing the road, and the wheels had slipped into the ditch. He and his worker had been trying to lever it out all night—no luck.

Renda had already leaned his greatsword against the wagon and walked over. "Two people couldn't budge it? Let me take a look."

He crouched, examined the broken axle, and snorted. "Right at the pivot. That horse must've been terrified—this ditch is deep enough to swallow it whole." He shrugged off his coat and rolled his shoulders. "Let a professional handle this."

Simon walked to the opposite side, and together they grabbed the wagon's lower frame. They heaved—the frame groaned, and the wheel lifted about a handspan from the mud. But with the axle broken, the wheel couldn't hold weight. Lifting it wasn't enough to move it.

The merchant broke a piece of iron from the snapped axle and tried to brace it against the frame with a hammer, using his worker's tools. The iron piece was too short—each attempt slipped.

Glaze walked over from the caravan, circled the wagon, and crouched beside the broken axle, tilting her head.

"That won't hold," she said.

The merchant gave a wry laugh, gesturing with the iron piece. "I know it won't, but I don't have anything else—"

Glaze extended a finger toward the crack in the axle.

"Glaze, don't—" / "Winter’s Ingress!"

A layer of ice—paper-thin but dense—seeped from her fingertip into the break, spreading rapidly along the fracture, filling every gap between the broken iron and the temporary brace. The ice was thin, but tight. The merchant tapped it with his wrench—a dull, solid sound. The ice had fused the broken surfaces together.

Vaste watched, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say.

"That should hold until you reach a town. It'll thaw eventually, but not too fast."

The merchant stared at the frozen axle, then at the girl before him. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed a "thank you." His worker was already reharnessing the horse. After they straightened the wheel, Renda helped reload the scattered casks. The dried fruit was beyond saving—scattered across the ground—but the merchant didn't seem to care. He just nodded at them, grateful.

When the caravan moved on, Simon walked beside Vaste. After a long silence, he spoke: "You said she had ability."

"Yes."

"Seems you weren't lying."

"I don't."

"Good instincts, kid."

Simon looked ahead at the dusty road, pulled his helmet back on, and hid his thoughtful eyes.

---

By evening, the caravan reached Greyvor.

If Norvic was the grey, somber fortress-town under Death City's shadow, and Seville the city of color and noise, Greyvor was iron that had been hammered too many times—ordered, stern, silent. Its walls were built of dark grey granite, unadorned by carvings, each stone marked only by uniform chisel strokes. Every ten paces along the wall, a bronze dwarf mortar crouched—short barrels, wide mouths, aimed downward to cover the open ground before the gate.

The gate guards carried standard-issue longswords and shields, their breastplates polished to a high shine, the imperial sun-wheel crest gleaming. Two lines formed at the entrance—one for locals and ordinary travelers, one for caravans and freight. The guards checked each wagon's cargo manifest and travel documents, stamping each with mechanical precision.

The caravan could rest properly tonight. Christopher and the lead driver agreed to meet at the waystation the next morning.

The adventurers found a tavern not far from the gate. Its sign was a bronze shield hung from an iron chain over the doorway, engraved with a mug of ale. Inside, the smell of roasting meat and bitter ale hit them at once. About twenty people sat in the main room—mostly merchants and waystation staff.

The five found a round table against the wall. Renda leaned his chair back on two legs the moment he sat down.

"I've heard about Greyvor's ale—twice as strong as Seville's. I had it once. The innkeeper thought I was drunk, but I carried two people back to their rooms and came back for another round."

Simon was wiping his mace with a dry cloth, not looking up. "You threw up after the first cup."

"That batch was bad."

"Sure. The problem was you drank it."

"Can Glaze drink?"

"Renda!"

Dierdre's mouth twitched at the corner. She took a sip of her fruit wine and lowered her hood. In the tavern's dim light, her grey-green eyes stood out clearly.

Vaste took the opportunity to study Dierdre's face—her jawline was sharper than most women's, not a soft curve but a clean angle from ear to chin. An old scar ran along the edge of her ear—faint, years old, but strangely shaped, as if tracing the ear's curve.

Dierdre's gaze moved past her cup to the counter across the room, where a pastry case displayed rows of honey cakes and carrot cakes dusted with sugar. She looked for a moment, then returned her gaze to her cup.

Glaze followed her line of sight. She asked Vaste for a few coins, stood, and walked to the counter. After a moment, she returned with a small plate of cakes.

"Want one?"

"...No."

"You looked at them several times."

"I didn't want one."

"But your eyes looked like you did."

Dierdre's ears flushed faintly in the dim light. She was silent for a few beats, then reached out and took the cake Glaze offered. She bit off a small piece, chewed slowly, and her eyes narrowed slightly.

"Good?" Glaze tilted her head. Dierdre didn't answer—just finished the cake in silence.

Renda saw the plate, let his chair down, and reached for a piece. Dierdre gently pushed his hand aside with the tip of her bow. Renda looked at his hand, then at Dierdre's eyes.

"These belong to the kid." Dierdre said.