Late in the afternoon of Day 128, with the meeting at the customs house finished and the supply contract signed, Kezra, Yseld. Paxa began the twelve-mile climb back toward Empty Choir. The winter sun was already dipping behind the western limestone cliffs. It cast cold violet shadows across the sheep pastures as they left Brackenford behind.
Their packs were heavier now, laden with fresh salt, dried apples, very thirsty flour, and two small casks of refined lamp oil purchased from the village factor. Walking uphill after twelve miles of morning descent was punishing labor. The calves burned, the knees creaked against the grade. The cold mountain air tasted like scraped slate in their lungs. Yet their pace was steady, rhythmic, and disciplined, their boots clicking against the dressed granite curbs of the ancient freight road.
They reached the Mile 6 wayside resting shelter. Just then, the last amber glow of sunset faded from the snowfields above. Inside the stone cabin, Yseld set her pack on the bunk and quickly laid a fire in the hearth using dry juniper logs from the shelter crib. Within ten minutes, a cheerful blaze was crackling against the dark granite fireback. It filled the room with pine-scented warmth and pushed back the freezing draft of the mountain night.
