It’s almost here!

Night still held the valley when Lowen Reedwhistle sighted Rook’s Rest—palisade and sharpened stakes etched black against the ridgeline, where the world became kept, not wild. On either side, farms began to emerge into the grey world, a rough ring around the settlement. 

Wick plodded on with the resignation of an ox asked for too much, too long. The wagon creaked in small complaints, every joint and strap speaking up in the pre-dawn hours, the stars beginning to thin overhead.

Ahead, the bridge spanned the dark water—a narrow, wooden spine connecting the forest path to the road beyond. Wick balked at the edge, but Lowen urged him forward. The boards answered with a soft, hollow drum under hoof and wheel, and Briala’s head came up at once—ears forward, nose tasting the wind. Overhead, Whisper swept toward the sleeping settlement in near silence.

Lowen kept his eyes on the gate and his hands steady on the reins. He could apologize to Wick later. He could sleep later. The news from the northwest wouldn’t wait.

Rook’s Rest stood dark against the breaking dawn as he drew back on the reins, boots braced on the wagon board to give his shorter frame leverage. The creak of the harness leather carried through the chill morning air, drawing the night guard’s attention. Seeing Lowen, the guard signaled for the gate. Wick slowed with a tired lowing, his breath steaming as the wagon rolled to a stop. Worry pricked at Lowen; he’d driven the ox through the night, something he would normally avoid. But he needed the settlement elders awake now, before the sun cleared the palisade.

Briala leapt from the wagon bed before it fully stopped, nose working the early morning air. She circled once, then pressed against Lowen’s leg as he climbed down. Whisper, having flown ahead of the slow ox and slower wagon, perched atop the gatepost, still as a carving, her pale form a ghost in the half-light. 

Lowen sighed softly as he gathered a small step ladder from under the wagon, setting it alongside Wick. Up close, he slid a hand along the ox’s shoulder. Heat met his palm before his eyes found the wound—the yoke had slipped in the night, rubbing the hide raw. The gall was walnut-sized, swollen and angry. 

His jaw tightened. He’d driven the old beast too hard, and the road had collected its due. He clambered back down and returned the ladder to its nook under the wagon.

“Merchant Reedwhistle.” The guard’s voice carried down from the wall, wry amusement in it. “Up early for a halfling.” He squinted into the pale dawn sky. “We weren’t expecting you for another fortnight.”

“News couldn’t wait, Torrin.” Lowen secured Wick’s lead to the post, frowning. The ox deserved rest and grain—he’d earned both. And the sore on his neck would need salve and time to heal. “I need the council roused. All of them. And send the ostler from the Wayfarer’s to see to old Wick here. He’ll need salve for this.”

The guard’s expression shifted. Men didn’t ride hard through the night for good tidings. “I’ll send word to the square. Captain Veller will want to know you’re here.”

“Tell him I’ll be at the Wayfarer’s Rest within the hour. And Torrin—make sure Yannos gets word too. And Master Durnic as well. This concerns the whole council and advisors.”

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