Chapter 88. Field and Feed

We didn’t march. We poured.

Caravans slid out of Veilgrove like stitched veins, each one a body with a heart of grain. Teams of oxen and steam-wagons groaned under sacks we’d kill to protect. Wolves ran the flanks in half-form, breath fogging, eyes clear.

The Sable Steppe lay three days south: a stretch of high meadow broken by black rock and wind, where the sky feels close enough to ladle and the earth gives back sound like a drum. We took the old trade road, because the new one had too many places to ambush and not enough places to hide the bodies.

“Counts?” I asked, walking the line with Syra.

“Five thousand mouths by nightfall,” she said, tapping her slate. “Eight if Pale Moor’s wagons arrive.”

“They will,” Neris called...

“We’ll find them at the first bend with reeds stuffed in their axles and a story about river sprites.”

“Fetch them,” Syra said.

“I will,” Neris purred. “Quietly. They can keep their story. I prefer actions.”