On day fourteen hundred and forty, Yara Fen came into Bracken on foot beside the first pack mule.
The animal had rubbed a sore beneath its left strap. She held the loose strap away from the raw patch while the muleteer guided it through the gate. Behind them, the rest of the light unit moved in a tired, orderly line: guards with dust on their boots, three carriers, medicine boxes wrapped against rain, short metal fittings lashed between padded frames.
Forty-two days from the Gate. The last ridge had not shortened itself because their arrival had been announced.
Iven stood with Jora near the receiving yard. Sera had taken the clinic boxes’ list before the animals entered. Tavin directed the loads under the right roofs. Nobody gathered to applaud.
Yara gave the sore strap to the waiting handler and turned toward them.
“Your upper path is better marked than the southern turn,” she said.
“It belongs to people who use it,” Iven answered.
She looked toward the road behind her. “So does the southern turn. Someone’s taken two of their markers.”
