The morning of Day 54 broke with the pale, washed-out clarity of highland frost.
By the time the sun had cleared the eastern rims of the limestone bluffs, the four companions had struck their cold camp, checked the wheel nuts of the handcart. Then they eased the two-wheeled ash frame down the rocky goat path. They didn’t touch the approved four-pace Step platforms. The two limestone squares remained live and silent in the mountain’s frame—Circuit 15 below on the goat shelf, Circuit 16 above behind the cold fire-ring—anchored to living bedrock and ready to receive an exchange if the retreat became a rout.
They left the rock rib behind. They turned west onto the sunken gorge road.
This was the third day of marching since they had passed the northern split above Saltglass and left Joric Thane’s freight wagons behind. The road here had been carved deep into the limestone plateau by two hundred years of heavy quarry traffic and seasonal rainwater torrents. The roadbed sat ten to twelve feet below the surrounding pastures. It was flanked by upright walls of pale, frost-pitted stone that smelled of damp moss and iron-veined flint.
Kezra Venn walked at the left cart shaft, her fingers resting lightly on the polished ash wood. With every stride, her thumb clicked the boxwood pace beads at her hip.
