"Write it like a story," Lyan said. "People will remember stories when they forget clauses."
She tried, and the clause read: Let the road sleep in the wet months so hooves don't wake the mud into grief. It would make a clerk snort. It would make a woodcutter smile and comply. That was the point.
Day five: merchant compacts and the first morning where calm came in with the light and stayed until second bell. The solar sounded different; even the walls knew the panic had thinned. Arielle measured it by her tea, which cooled before a runner burst through the door. It had not done that for weeks. She wrote slowly on purpose just to enjoy it, letting her penscratch fall into an easy rhythm.
