The morning after the news reached Greystone, the bells at the Waystation rang twice before dawn. That meant arrivals—too many for a single clerk to count.
Therese stepped out onto the porch, half-dressed, hair pinned in haste. "Tell me that's not another caravan."
"It's three," Mira called from below, holding a clipboard and already scribbling notes. "All coming from the east road. Said the mists cleared overnight."
Eira's voice floated from the kitchen window. "Then someone had better pray our ovens hold. We'll be cooking until next moon."
Marla's laugh rose from near the firepit. "Good! We'll finally use the new pans."
The whole compound hummed with motion. Wagons rolled in, heavy with grain, spices, bolts of cloth, and crates marked Blackthorn Produce. The drivers were shouting over one another—some to be unloaded, others demanding hot meals or a place to rest.
