"No one can know." I step toward him, lowering my voice even though Papa's room is at the end of the second floor hall. "Finn. No one."
"Your secret is safe with me." He looks up at me, less startled now, more thoughtful. "But I'm going to say you're asking for a lot of trouble."
"I know."
"More trouble than the weapons."
"I know." I sit down on the step beside him. "Are you going to lecture me?"
He thinks about it with genuine consideration. "No," he finally says. "But I am going to worry."
"That makes two of us."
His eyes land on the closed forge door, then at me. "He's not what I expected."
"No," I agree. "He's not."
We sit there for a moment in the quiet house, the forge coals ticking behind the door as they cool.
"Go to bed," I tell him.
"That's what he said to you."
"Finn."
He unfolds himself from the step with a grin he's trying to suppress and pads back upstairs without another word.
I sit alone with the cooling forge and the dark house around me, and I think about who else might have been watching the lane tonight. The patrols Nyrius assigned are his own men, loyal to him. But Malrec has eyes in Oxwood too, and a man who sends warning letters doesn't stop watching just because his letter went unanswered.
I go upstairs and lie down, and this time sleep actually comes — but it takes a while, and the arithmetic running in my head while I wait for it is not the comfortable kind.
18
NYRIUS
The post-harvest festival in Oxwood runs three days, and I attend the first evening under the pretense of territorial presence. The real reason is the crowd — smugglers move during festivals the way water moves downhill, following the noise and cover. If anyone connected to the western supply lines is going to surface publicly, it's here.
I spend two hours moving through the market stalls and the torchlit square, watching faces rather than the entertainment. Cyran works the opposite end of the crowd. We meet on the outskirts of the bonfire circle near the ninth hour and compare nothing, because neither of us has found anything useful.
That's when Malrec appears.
He comes from the direction of the council tent with a cup in his hand and comfortable ease. These are his people. He feels safe and superior here. He spots me and changes course without making it look deliberate.
"My lord Nyrius." He stops beside me, turning to face the bonfire the way two men look at something together when one of them wants to talk without appearing to. "A fine turnout this year."
"It is."
"I wanted to say, publicly—" He gestures toward a passing group of merchants who aren't listening, establishing his audience. "The increased patrol presence around the border settlements has been noticed. The villages feel safer." He tips his cup slightly. "Oxwood in particular."
"Patrol coordination is standard for the season."
"Of course." He sips his drink. "Still, the personal attention you've given that area has not gone unnoticed. The forge family especially seems to have benefited."
I watch the bonfire.
"The daughter is a remarkable woman," he continues. "Resilient. Resourceful." He pauses. "Though I understand she had some trouble recently. A late night altercation near the creek path." His voice stays pleasant. "Fortunate that help was nearby."
The creek path. Not the main forest route — the secondary one, the one she switched to. The one I'd only learned about from Finn.
