The inland road climbed for four days through wet hills. The wagons moved at the pace of their weakest axle, and Han stopped them twice when clouds hid the next ridge. Yan walked beside the first cart for most of the climb. His legs felt strong after the sea voyage, but the salt had left cracks across his knuckles, and the rope burn on his palm reopened when he gripped the side rail.
Qinghe saw the blood at their second rest. She cleaned it with boiled water and wrapped his hand while he held it still.
“You could let one of the drivers carry the crate,” she said.
“I could. I wanted to help.”
“Then help without tearing the same place open.”
He smiled and held out his other hand for the bandage. She tightened it enough to keep the cut clean, not so much that he lost his grip. The small care made the last miles feel shorter.
On the second day, rain had washed a culvert over the lower road. Han halted the wagons before the lead driver committed to the slope. She walked the edge with two scouts, then sent the lighter cart across one at a time while the others waited on firm ground. Sato and Meili stayed with the passengers who could not walk the detour, passing water forward until the wheels were clear. It cost them half a day, but no one had to risk a loaded wagon on the broken lip.
