Kaelen folded the charred goatskin map and slid it into his sleeve.
The canyon was silent. Fifty bound bandits lay tied in heavy hemp along the wash, their broken weapons piled into scrap.
“Leave them for the town garrison,” Kaelen said, climbing over the tailgate. “The ox does not pull extra freight for free.”
Mina pulled her cloak tight on the front bench. The blue frost around her wrists had receded into her skin, leaving only a faint chill in the air.
Sera flicked the reins. The heavy cart lurched forward over the gravel.
Kaelen sank back into the straw sacks. He pulled his straw hat down, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.
A familiar warmth spread through his meridians. The moment his limbs relaxed, his breath settled into the rhythmic pulse of the True Fallow State.
The world faded to the dull creak of iron wheels.
