The job board in Solaceon was smaller than Hearthome's, most slips offering berry-picking or fence repair. Only one bore the Veilstone crest, stamped in sharp ink:
"Supplies to Veilstone. Escort the cart. Payment on arrival."
That was the one I needed.
The clerk barely glanced at my badges before marking me down. She pointed me to the wagon waiting at the edge of town: a patched cart hitched to a Ponyta with a gleaming coat. The driver sat tall on the bench, broad shoulders under a straw hat. His eyes swept my belt of Poké Balls, then me. He gave a small nod.
"You walk the side," he said. "Grass is tall this season. Things come out fast."
I nodded, releasing Tyrunt to the right of the cart. He bounded into the grass with a sharp bark, tail swishing. Grotle lumbered left, steady, brushing stalks aside with his shell. Luxio's ball rattled impatiently at my belt, but I kept him in for now. Honedge slid silent into my shadow, tassel brushing my wrist.
The road cut north, grass waist-high on either side, the kind of tall green that whispered with secrets. Ponyta's hooves struck a steady rhythm on the dirt, flames flickering with each step.
Not an hour in, the grass cracked loud. A Machop lunged from the side, fists swinging, eyes locked on Ponyta's flank. Tyrunt snarled, muscles coiling, but I snapped first.
"Luxio!"
The ball burst open. Sparks leapt. He shot forward, teeth flashing white. His Bite sank into Machop's shoulder, dragging it back in a crackle of electricity. The fighting-type twisted, swung wide, but Luxio tore free with sparks snapping. The Machop yelped and bolted into the grass, vanishing with a rustle.
Luxio prowled after it, mane bristling, but I called him short. His ears flattened, but he obeyed. Barely.
Tyrunt roared at the retreating grass, tail slamming too wide, clipping a stone. I barked his name, sharp. He froze, tail trembling, frustration in his eyes. But he held. That was progress.
The driver snapped the reins, Ponyta trotting faster. Dust rose in thin clouds. He didn't speak until the road had gone quiet again.
"You've got a steady hand for one so young," he said at last, his voice low, half-swallowed by the cart's rattle. His eyes never left the grass. "Most lads let their beasts run wild at the first sign of danger. That's how you lose them. Or worse, yourself."
I kept my eyes forward. "I've learned that much."
He grunted. "This land's always been wild. People think the League tamed Sinnoh, but they only fenced off pieces of it. The rest belongs to whatever's strong enough to claim it. A pack of Murkrow. A herd of Rhyhorn. Or worse. Champion beasts still walk out there, same as they did a hundred years ago. You don't fight them. You endure them. That's the way it's always been."
His words sat heavy, not like a warning, but like stone truth. My team shifted around me—Luxio's sparks snapping quiet, Tyrunt's tail twitching small arcs, Grotle steady as a wall. Honedge's tassel pressed faint against my wrist, cool and constant.
The cart rolled on, Ponyta's hooves striking sparks against the road. The grass hissed in the wind, hiding more than it showed. Each step forward was a gamble, but it was ours.