The first frost hadn’t yet fallen, but the wind had teeth.

  Fran kept her cloak tight at the throat, watching the land unroll beyond the window of the carriage. Brown fields and bare orchards passed in silence, broken only by the occasional flash of torchlight at distant farmsteads or the bark of dogs guarding narrow trails. The sky above was a washed-out grey, the kind that threatened drizzle without the commitment. She’d never liked this kind of weather. It made the world look undecided.

  The sound of hoofbeats drew closer to her window before Verren’s voice cut through the wheel-clatter. “We’ll stop for the night at Redreach. Still two hours ahead, but the men want to press on while there’s light.”

  “Understood.” She caught herself nodding to empty air.

  The carriage lurched over another rut, throwing her against the cushioned wall. The familiar creak of the rear wheel mixed with leather groans and the jingle of the horses’ bits, while the scent of road dust and wet wool seeped through the canvas windows.

  There had been no trouble so far. Three days on the road, escorted by ten riders bearing the colors of Foher, and the only threats they’d encountered were potholes and stubborn geese.

  Fran sat alone in the carriage, her back straight despite the swaying, her hand resting on a folded map of the baronies. Her satchel pressed against her ribs with familiar weight, yet somehow everything felt different lately. Her appetite had vanished somewhere on the road from Vartis—when Verren’s looks grew pointed, she’d blamed too little sleep, too many reports, the lingering strain from Delran’s Hollow.

  Gale’s absence hadn’t helped, though she told herself she was used to it by now. She had read his letter so many times the edges had grown soft. She’d written back before leaving Vartis — by the time it reached Kentar, this journey would be over.

  She tried to focus on the landscape, but her gaze kept drifting. The carriage’s motion turned her stomach, and even the herbs she’d packed weren’t helping as much as usual. Emaen still sent them, wrapped in waxed linen and tucked between brief notes — practical, well-meaning, never intrusive. Fran usually replied with a brief thank-you and nothing more. Emaen hadn’t expected an answer, and hadn’t pressed for one — but the parcels kept arriving.

  “Damn roots,” she muttered, and reached for her canteen.

  She drank a little, forced down half a biscuit, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The window clattered with wind. Hoofbeats struck a rhythm against the dirt.

  Outside the window, two riders changed formation — Verren among them, she assumed, though it was hard to tell beneath the matching cloaks. He had insisted on ten guards this time, not the six from the Hollow.

  Different region, my lady, he had said flatly. And far less forgiving.

  She hadn’t argued. The eastern roads were colder, lonelier, and more brittle. The villages poorer. The silence deeper.

  And Durnhal — well. Durnhal was another story.

  Alven Daskar had left Vartis the day after their courtyard exchange, according to Rhyve. The memory still stirred something unpleasant—not quite relief, not quite regret.

  Fran let her head rest lightly against the cushion behind her. The wheels clattered. The air beyond the canvas window smelled of dry leaves and smoke. Somewhere ahead, the first outpost was waiting. Then the next, and the next, all the way to Durnhal.

  She would visit them all — every outpost between here and the border.

  Verren appeared at her window, his horse keeping pace with the carriage. “Almost there. No trouble ahead, just a cold welcome.”

  She managed a smile. “I’ve had worse.”

  “True,” he said, then added after a beat, “You sure you want to keep pushing eastward, Your Grace? Durnhal’s not what it used to be.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “I doubt anything in this kingdom is,” she replied. “Including me.”

  He didn’t answer, just nudged his horse forward again and returned to the front.

  The road wound through thin trees, their branches stripped bare by autumn’s retreat. Redreach appeared gradually — a cluster of stone buildings that seemed to hunker down against the wind. Smoke drifted from a few chimneys, and the gates stood open, unguarded except for two men who stepped forward to wave them through. No bells, no ceremony. Just the scrape of boots on wet stone as the carriage rolled into the yard.

  Fran stepped down from the carriage slowly, cloak pulled tight, her boots meeting uneven cobbles. The air smelled of wet earth, old fires, and something faintly sour — boiled roots, maybe, or the weight of too many bodies packed into too few shelters.

  Near the walls, a line of makeshift tents clung to the edge of the yard: patched canvas, bundled cloaks, scraps of wood lashed into crude lean-tos. A few figures stirred at the sound of the arriving party — a woman rising to lift a child into her arms, two men shifting closer to a small fire, one of them coughing hard into his sleeve.

  Refugees. Dozens, maybe more. No wagons, no livestock, no supplies.

  Just hunger and smoke and silence.

  Verren dismounted ahead of her, exchanged quiet words with the man approaching from the garrison. The officer — lean, pale, face lined with sleeplessness — gave a sharp nod and stepped forward.

  “Your Grace,” he said, with a clumsy bow. “Captain Tyren. I wasn’t told to expect your arrival—”

  “You weren’t,” Fran said simply.

  The man swallowed, straightened, and glanced toward the manor at the back of the yard. “The hall is warm, and the garrison cook has stretched supper. We’ve a private chamber prepared, such as it is.”

  “That will do,” she said.

  The small party moved toward the hall, boots crunching over frozen dirt. Fran walked without comment, though she caught the sidelong looks of the soldiers and civilians alike. Not unkind, but not warm either. She was a noble in a place that had grown tired of nobility — and used to being forgotten.

  Inside, the manor was low-ceilinged and roughly built, likely repurposed from a merchant house or small fortress. A fire crackled in the hearth, doing its best to fight the draft. A long table waited near the center, with uneven bowls set at three places.

  The steward bowed without words. A second man — older, robed, with a pale circlet hanging at his neck — gave a shallow nod. A priest, maybe. Fran returned the gesture.

  “We’re stretched thin.” Captain Tyren settled into his chair with visible weariness. “Had to quarter the overflow in the granary. Some of them came from the border — say they lost their homes two weeks ago. Raided. Could be bandits, but…” He hesitated. “Others say they flew gold banners.”

  Fran’s brow twitched.

  Golden banners.

  She kept her face still, but her jaw had set hard. Less than a fortnight ago, she’d signed the decree herself — stripping the company of license, contract, and permission to operate within the duchy. The accusations had been damning: blackmail, extortion, dereliction of duty.

  Rhyve had called them scum in uniform. She hadn’t disagreed.

  The news should have reached Durnhal by now. Should have reached every outpost from the Hollow to the border. And yet here they were — gold banners still flying, still raiding, still bleeding the poorest corners of the realm.

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “No, Your Grace. But three of our grain carts never arrived. Last seen south of the river crossing.”

  “How many men did you send after them?”

  “None yet. We’ve barely the strength to hold patrols on this side of the woods. Our scouts haven’t come back either.”

  Fran nodded once. “You’ll have supplies rerouted from the southern depots. I’ll sign the order tonight. And I want your scribe to prepare a list of what’s missing. Include every name, every child, every wound. Send a copy to Vartis.”

  The captain blinked. “You’ll read it?”

  “I will.”

  Dinner was served without fuss: barley stew, hard bread, a bit of dried fish softened in milk. Fran took a bowl out of politeness, lifted the spoon once, then set it aside and reached for her water instead.

  Verren didn’t comment, but she saw his eyes flick toward her bowl. She met them with a look that said: later.

  The priest spoke a quiet grace before the meal, a short one about dry fields and steady hands. Then the room fell into subdued conversation — logistics, weather, the state of the eastern trail. Fran asked pointed questions but didn’t linger on any answer. She already knew too many of them.

  When the meal ended, Captain Tyren showed her upstairs with more apologies for the rough quarters.

  The chamber was modest - a small fireplace, a basin of lukewarm water, and a narrow bed. The shutters creaked in the wind.

  She didn’t undress, just removed her boots and sat on the edge of the bed. Her limbs ached, but not from the road. She’d ridden longer routes with less strain. Her temples pulsed with dull pressure.

  She exhaled slowly as she lay back, stretching against the dull ache between her shoulder blades.

  Outside, voices rose briefly — guards passing by the hall, or perhaps some of the displaced murmuring near the outer wall. She turned toward the sound, eyes open in the dark, listening.

  A pause.

  Then a whisper — low and hushed — something about a caravan lost near Blackholt. A woman’s voice, half-choked. A man responding with a quiet curse.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  The wind shifted. The voices faded.

  Fran turned back toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on the old wooden beams above. The fire had started to die.

  She would reach Durnhal in two days.

  And she would be ready.