The wagon's wheels groaned as they rolled over uneven earth, kicking up dust and the scent of pine sap. Yara shifted in her saddle beside it, eyes scanning the tree line, bow resting across her lap. Her legs ached from days of riding, and the sun bore down on her leathers like judgment.
Urgh, she needed a bath.
"Guard the wagon," Rolen had told her this morning, tone clipped. "Watch for movement. Speak if you see something unusual. Nothing more."
Not what they were guarding. Not where they were headed. Not why three of the men carried crossbows poisoned with wyrmsleep bolts. Just guard duty.
It was never more than that.
Yara's fingers twitched at her side, brushing the old dragonbone pendant hidden beneath her tunic. It felt warm today. She told herself it was the sun.
"First time up north?" someone asked.
She turned. A wiry boy with an uneven tan and a crooked smile walked beside her mount, bouncing on his toes. Couldn't be older than fifteen.
