And sure enough, after riding for a few minutes, his guess was indeed true
In from them was the River-Cross
The town sat on the edge of the borderlands, a sprawling collection of haphazard wooden buildings and refugee tents clustered around a swollen, grey river.
It was a place where people went when they had nowhere else to go, deserters, bankrupt merchants, and families fleeing the aftermath of the Demon War.
Alaric pulled the wagon to a halt near the southern gate.
"Hoods up," Alaric muttered.
Two Imperial Guards stood at the checkpoint. Their armor was stained with rust, and they looked bored, leaning on their halberds as they watched the line of refugees.
"Papers," the guard grunted as Alaric pulled up.
Alaric handed over a crumpled, water-stained travel permit. It was a fake, given to them by Barnaby three days ago, but it was a good fake.
The guard barely glanced at it. He was too busy looking at the wagon.
"Potatoes?"
