Chaos greeted Greystone before the sun did.
The bells at the Waystation clanged three times—a sound no one wanted to hear that early. By the third ring, Mira was already outside in her nightcoat, glaring at the horizon like it had personally offended her.
"Three caravans," called Joshua from the gate, ledger in hand. "All from the east. Two carrying grain, one with iron tools. And they brought their cousins, their dogs, and I think someone's goat."
"Don't joke about goats," Marla shouted from the kitchen window. "I'm still missing mine from last week's soup incident!"
"It wasn't in the soup," Eira's calm voice floated from the yard. "It escaped through the laundry line."
"Exactly!" Marla barked. "That's where I hang what's left of my dignity!"
Mira rolled her eyes. "Both of you— less shouting, more working. If the wardstones hear this noise, they'll flicker from embarrassment."
