“No,” Vorrik said.
“Yes,” Nythir said at the exact same time.
The caravan master squinted.
Nythir felt the calculation settle in his bones.
Essie was a liability. Too soft-spoken. Too honest. Too visibly unused to the road. Anyone with eyes would underestimate her—and anyone with sense would exploit that.
Underestimation was only helpful if you knew when it was happening. Essie did not. That made her powerful—and exposed.
He chose her anyway.
The decision surprised him less than it should have.
“We’ll keep her in check,” Lyssara sighed. “She’s more useful than she looks. Discount if she accidentally explodes bandits.”
The man hesitated, then shrugged. “As long as she explodes the right people. Payment on arrival.” He jerked his head toward the wagons. “We leave in thirty.”
Nythir guided Essie away before she could apologize to anyone for existing. He made a silent vow: she would never apologize for that again. As far as he was concerned, she never had to apologize—even if she was at fault.
“You don’t have to speak,” he said under his breath. “Let Lyssara and me handle the talking when coin is involved.”
“That feels rude,” she whispered back.
“That,” he said, “is why we handle the talking.”
Caravan escorts were supposed to be easy coin. Predictable routes. Boring threats. Bandits who scattered once steel flashed, and numbers turned against them.
Lately, none of that had been true.
Guild boards were full of “last-minute replacements” and “unexpected losses.” Too many caravans limped in, missing guards. Too many never arrived at all. Something was tightening along the roads—and it wasn’t hunger alone.
Roads reflected politics faster than courts ever did. When caravans stopped arriving intact, it meant borders were tightening somewhere upstream. Hunger followed. Then desperation. Then, violence was presented as an opportunity.
It looked like the type of day where nothing could possibly go wrong. They set off under a bright, deceptive sky. The wind whispered through the trees, leaves starting to turn shades of red and orange. Everything was beautiful, quiet, and tranquil.
Until one of his companions inevitably caused a disturbance, ruining it all.
The caravan consisted of three covered wagons, two open carts, and a couple of merchants riding alongside, eyes darting to every bush as if it were a bandit in disguise.
Essie rode in the middle of the formation on a clay-colored mare. Nythir rode beside her.
“You can ride closer to Lyssara if you want,” she offered after an hour of riding silently, surrounded by the banter of the travel party.
“I’m fine here.”
“You keep looking around.”
“Yes.”
“As if you’re expecting something to jump out and kill us.”
“That’s because I am.” He scanned the tree line. “It usually does.”
She pursed her lips. “Optimistic.”
“Experienced,” he corrected.
