Beneath the timber sorting platform, the smell of forty years of dry rock flour and cobwebs hung thick in the air. For three long heartbeats, the only sound was the harsh, ragged rasp of Bram’s breathing as he stared at the copper bracelet resting on Kezra’s open palm.
Bram’s practical mountain wisdom was the sharpest compass on the crag. For twelve winters, he had worked the timber stands of Hushwood. He watched how deer navigated the high ridges during autumn blizzards. He knew that horses were creatures of the valley roads. Their iron shoes slipped on wet limestone flutes. Their heavy bodies couldn’t negotiate the narrow goat clefts where a man had to scramble on hands and knees. Taking the platform down to the valley was a gambler’s throw, trading the safety of high rock for the flat plains where cavalry had the advantage.
The pullback was carried out with the silent grace of mountain hunters. Paxa slipped the copper tag over her knuckles. She felt the silver thread of deep ring dissolve like frost in the sun. Fellis untied his bracelet with his teeth, coiling the thread neatly into his belt pouch with his good right hand. They didn’t leave a single scrap of linen, a single drop of grease, or a single footprint in the open shale that could tell the scouts which cleft they had taken. They vanished into the birch draw. Then, the working yard behind them looked as deserted as it had for forty winters.
