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“And I used one.”

His black eyes move from the bulging bags to me. “You interpret every restriction as an invitation.”

“I interpret it precisely.”

Joran turns away, though his broad shoulders move once with suppressed amusement.

We leave before Rhysandir can reconsider.

The northern road climbs through tiphe groves bent beneath snow. Offerings tied to the branches click and rustle in the wind. Beyond the trees, the mountains rise in steep black folds. I ride near the center of the party as commanded, with guards before and behind me.

Rhysandir leads beside Joran.

He rarely looks back.

He always knows where I am.

We reach the mining post near dusk. A timber wall encloses six buildings pressed against the slope. Smoke leaking from the roofs lies low and gray above the yard. The workers gather when Morwen’thir banners pass through the gate.

Too many are coughing.

The post overseer begins a formal report, but I leave Rhysandir to question him and approach the workers. Their faces carry the same drained look I saw in the kitchens.

A woman’s fever comes from an infected cut beneath her glove. Two men show signs of bluefrost. Another worker has bound a cracked rib with a strip of dirty wool.

Their medical chest contains old bandages, rancid oil, and a single jar of dried herbs spoiled by damp.

“Where are your fresh supplies?” I ask.

“The last delivery never arrived,” the overseer says from behind me.

Rhysandir turns toward him. “Your written report listed adequate stores.”

“They were adequate when the report was prepared.”

“The report reached me yesterday.”

The overseer pales.

I examine the food stores next. Grain remains, but little meat and almost no fresh root vegetables. Several sacks bear chew marks too broad for ordinary vermin.

Outside the northern wall, I find deep scratches across a fence post. Black hair clings beneath one splinter. Tracks vanish where workers have trampled the snow, but a patch near the woodpile remains untouched.

Three long impressions angle toward the wall.

Waira signs.

“They came close enough to test the fence,” I tell Rhysandir.

His gaze follows the tracks toward the ridge. “How recent?”

“After the last snowfall. Less than two days.”

Joran crouches beside the impressions. “Scouts.”

“The poisoned animals distracted the post,” Rhysandir says. “The attacks on the road weakened its deliveries.”

“They are preparing for something larger,” I answer.