Near the stables of Domvoro, the smell of hay and tanned leather mingled with the tension of the meeting. Philip and his four heavy cavalry captains leaned over a rough wooden table where a parchment map was spread out.

  “We go this way,” Philip said, his calm, steady voice cutting through the silence. His finger traced a line across the map, veering away from the main trade route. “We will not take the Road of Ur.”

  He stopped his fingertip on an empty spot on the parchment, where the drawing of the mountains looked unfinished.

  “There is a pass here. The cavalry will take this gap, while I and the rest of the troops follow the alternate route.” Philip cleared his throat, looking each man in the eye. “Leave two days early. Take extra bnkets for the animals; the wind on the slopes will show no mercy to the horses.”

  “What will we find on that path?” one of the captains asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “My scouts have already cleared the trail. You will see the signs,” Philip replied with a dry smile, giving the officer’s shoulder a firm sp.

  Domvoro greeted Philip with the chaos of the sawmills and the sweet odor of pine resin. Here, progress was measured in sawdust and sweat, not in royal decrees.

  Philip crossed the street, dodging wagons pushed by sweating borers, until he spotted the caravan master with his back turned in one of the workshops. The rhythm of hammers and saws ceased suddenly; the workers stopped, their eyes fixed on the imposing figure approaching.

  With a discreet signal, the master ordered the work to continue. He puffed on his straw cigarette, exhaling the smoke before walking toward Philip.

  “My Lord... your presence here is never by chance,” he said, his voice raspy.

  Philip ignored protocol, observing the stacked spare wheels and the fresh scent of cut wood. He held out a piece of parchment with precise notes.

  “You will be responsible for my caravan. We are going south... to Sulkar.”

  “Sulkar?” The master’s eyes widened, the cigarette smoke hanging still in the air. “That’s nearly two months, milord. The main road is long and dangerous.”

  Philip smiled.

  “We will arrive in a month, Master. We won’t use the main road, but a shortcut known only to our scouts. You just need to keep our pace. We depart next week.”

  PauloFabricio

  https:///fiction/155420/domvoro