"An informant." Thalen's silver brows lift slightly. "That's an interesting description when my intel says you’ve met after dark secretly with her several times."
"Border intelligence requires proximity." I keep my voice even. "Is there a point here, Thalen?"
"The point," he says, "is optics. A border lord developing personal attachments in the settlements he governs?—"
"I have an informant who has provided useful intelligence about smuggling routes in the western corridor." I stare at him from across the table. "If that's been misread as something personal, I'd suggest the people doing the misreading focus their attention on the actual problem." I turn to Caevar. "You said three confirmed routes. Have any of the secondary paths been traced?"
Thalen lets it go. He files things away rather than pressing them—that's his method—but he lets the conversation turn, and I let myself breathe.
The rest of the meeting passes without incident. I make the right noises about patrol coordination and leave as soon as I can.
Cyran is waiting outside with the horses, which means he has news he didn't want to deliver in the hall.
"Reports from the Oxwood patrol unit," he says, falling into step beside me. "Something went wrong with a recent exchange in the western forest."
I stop walking. "What kind of wrong?"
"Unclear yet. A patrol found signs of a struggle near one of the secondary paths—disturbed ground, blood on a tree root. Nobody." He hands me the summary note. "The exchange point matches one of the transit locations you marked two weeks ago."
I read it twice. The secondary path. The one with the fresh boot prints, the smaller set.
"When?" I ask.
"Last night, based on the frost patterns."
I fold the note and hand it back. "I need to go back."
"My lord." Cyran's voice is measured. "Given what Thalen said in there?—"
"Thalen says things."
"Thalen says things and then acts on them." He keeps pace with me as I move toward the horses. "Riding back to Oxwood tonight, immediately after he raised the question of your attachment to that village, will not go unnoticed."
"Then it won't go unnoticed." I take my horse's reins from the groom. "Someone was hurt on that path last night. I'm not leaving that to a patrol report."
"You don't know it was her."
"No." I mount up. "I don't."
Cyran purses his lips and stares back at me, then goes to his own horse without further argument. That's the thing about him—he makes his objection clearly, once, and then he moves.
We ride hard.
The forge is litwhen we reach Oxwood, but it's the wrong kind of lit—a banked fire, low and untended, no hammer sounds. I dismount at the lane edge and go in on foot.
Finn is inside, sitting on the three-legged stool near the coal pile with his arms wrapped around his knees. He looks up the moment I step through the door, and the expression on his face—relief and fear twisted together—tells me everything before he opens his mouth.
"She went out last night," he says. "She's not back."
I watch the banked fire. Cold enough that it's been sitting several hours. "What time did she leave?"
"Past the second hour." He stands, too fast, his lanky frame unfolding from the stool. "She does this sometimes—goes out, comes back before morning. But she's always back before I wake up." He swallows. "Papa thinks she went to the market early. I didn't tell him."
Smart boy. "Does she take a route through the northern creek path?"
His eyes go sharp. "How do you know about that?"
"The patrols have been watching the forest routes." I move to the doorway and look out at the lane, the grey morning light flat against the mud. "The secondary path near the mill creek—does she use it?"
