The brisk wind still carried the scent of ash.
Kai gripped Dryja’s reins, scanning the path ahead as the Stormguard flanked her in loose, silent formation.
Three weeks since the collapse, there were few places left that felt normal. Out here, on the frozen tundra, was one of them. The mountain itself felt wrong.
Every day was more of the same: weeping stones and creaking tunnels. Trials.
Death sentences.
Usti was gone. Unfortunately, his legacy remained.
To his followers, the destruction was proof. The dead, the hunger, the broken stone—confirmation that Usti had been right all along. New leadership was needed.
But not all of Rising Moon opposed them. Some worked tirelessly to stabilize the tunnels. Many, like Atsadi, barely slept. He and Shadow Water worked to reopen the ancient aqueducts, diverting water where they could.
But none of it mattered if they couldn’t feed the people inside.
So Kai did the one thing that made sense—the one thing she knew by heart.
She patrolled their frozen lands.
“Riders,” Otekah called from up the trail.
Kai urged Dryja up the ridge and squinted through the morning frost toward the winding path below. It had been some time since a wagon traveled this way, and the road was thick with unmarked, glittering snow.
Three wagons creaked into view, piled high with tightlybound crates. Oxen hauled the load, flanked by unarmed men in layered wool and worn cloaks. Their hair was shorn at the sides, their beards braided to their chests. Their clothing bore the sea-salt blue and jade green of Eslodel.
“Merchants.” The word shot from Kai’s chest like a relieved breath, and her heartbeat kicked.
She signaled to her Stormguard, and the six of them rode until they reached the base of the ridge, meeting the convoy.
The lead wagon slowed, and a broad-shouldered man with streaks of gray in his braided beard raised both hands. “It’s been a long time, Kai Silver Wolf.”
Once, she’d have invited him in with a hug. Some of her fondest memories were of beer-soaked tavern tables, laughing over mugs of ale.
That was before his people betrayed them.
“Vali.”
Dryja’s ear flicked at Vali’s name, as if the oxbeast too remembered the old summers of full granaries.
Vali’s smile faltered. In two decades as envoy and brother to Eslodel’s high chieftain, he’d never been met with such frost.
Belatedly, Vali motioned to the three wagons. “I bring a peace offering.”
“You come now, after months cowering to the whims of the mad Perean king? And still, with the man dead and gone, you refused us aid.”
Vali lowered his chin. “Steinar sends his regrets and…this.” He stepped forward, pulling folds of parchment from a pouch at his side. “New terms for trade?—”
“We have nothing to trade.” The words landed in her stomach like stone. Like the mountain itself had dropped inside her. “We won’t for a long while yet.”
Vali stepped forward, his thick brows drawn together. “Tell me what’s happened.”
And because he’d once been a friend to her people, she told him. The barest bones of it—Perean’s role. Usti’s sabotage.
“Much of our mines are under rubble and water,” she explained at last. “We must stabilize the mountain and reroute the water before we can begin production again.”
Vali nodded. “Until then, Eslodel will see to it that your people want for nothing.” He motioned to the wagons. “Food, medicine, fabric, grain, tools. And if you wish it, hands to help you rebuild.”
