"So, got any idea what the heck is going on?" Mivara asked, her voice low.
"Road trip. Yay," Thrynn said flatly, her tone so dry it could have turned to dust.
"Please no. That doesn't suit you," Mivara shot back.
"Then what does?"
They were seated well away from the busy square, on a weathered bench still slick with morning dew. Cold bit through the wood and seeped into their legs, and when Mivara shifted, droplets clung to the edge of her cloak. The mist had thinned, but it still clung to the ground like smoke, blurring the shapes of carriages and villagers moving in the distance. The smell of damp earth mixed with horse sweat and faint incense from somewhere near the square.
Thrynn let out a long sigh, breath fogging in the cool air.
"Our conclusion?" Mivara asked, leaning slightly toward her.
Thrynn's answer was clipped, precise. "Spy gone native."
"Gone native," Mivara repeated slowly, like she was tasting the words.
"While everyone else was fighting to survive," Thrynn continued, "they were growing. Quietly. In the corner where no one was looking."
"Yeah," Mivara said, smirking. "And all the other kingdoms still thought they were in the Stone Age, running around like fighting apes."
Thrynn gave a small nod. "It seems this land is far better than ours."
"We haven't even explored that much yet," Mivara countered. "How can you say that?"
"I can," Thrynn said simply.
"Yeah," Mivara admitted after a pause, looking away.
From the crowd, movement caught Mivara's eye — a small figure stepping carefully between boots and wagon wheels.
"Hold up. A small girl's headed straight for us," Mivara muttered, sitting up a little straighter.
"I have eyes," Thrynn replied dryly, though she turned her head to watch as well.
The girl's hair was wind-tossed, her thin shoes damp from the dew, and her breath puffed in tiny clouds as she scanned the benches. When she finally spotted them, her face lit up with something between relief and shyness, and she approached, clutching something small in her hands.
The girl came closer, her breath quick and uneven.
"What happened, dear?" Thrynn asked, lowering her voice.
The girl's words tumbled out in a rush. "We—we… no carriages are leaving without these. Take this."
She pressed two small bracelets into their hands — a combination of polished metal and tightly woven fabric, each marked with an engraved crest that caught the faint morning light. Before either of them could reply, she turned and darted back into the crowd, vanishing between skirts and boots.
Thrynn and Mivara stared down at the bracelets, twisting them in their hands.
"…What just happened?" Mivara asked, blinking.
Thrynn stood, brushing dew from her cloak. "The carriages are leaving. Let's go."
Mivara got to her feet as well, still holding the bracelet like it might bite her. "Uh, what about this?"
"Some kind of identification, maybe," Thrynn said, slipping hers under her arm, the metal cold against her palm.
"Yeah. Makes sense," Mivara muttered, though she still looked unconvinced.
✦✦✦
The square was alive with movement. Horses shifted restlessly, steam curling from their nostrils. Villagers shouted instructions as they hauled baskets and secured straps, while children weaved between the wheels, carrying small bundles or waving goodbyes. The air was thick with the smell of oiled leather, damp wool, and the faint sweetness of hay.
Thrynn and Mivara moved carefully through the press of bodies, bracelets clinking faintly against each other as they walked, the metal catching stray rays of sunlight. Twice they stopped to peer between wagons, and once Mivara nearly tripped over a coiled rope.
"There," Thrynn said at last, spotting the broad-shouldered man from earlier. He was tightening a harness strap, then looked up as though sensing their gaze.
He waved. "You came."
"Yes," they answered together.
"Can we get your name sir" Thrynn asked.
"Ah," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Where are my manners? Soryn. But you can call me Old Man Vaer, if you like."
Thrynn tilted her head. "Vaer?"
"A common word of respect in Veyrath," he explained easily. "Like 'sir' or 'mister.' Everyday use."
"Noted," Thrynn murmured.
"Now then," he said, motioning toward the nearest wagon. "Get in."
✦✦✦
They climbed into the carriage, the wooden planks creaking under their boots. Inside, the air smelled of cedar and straw, warm from the morning sun filtering through the canvas cover. The bracelets — metal glinting against fabric — lay in their laps, a tangible link to the girl and the village. Mivara shoved hers into her bag with a grimace, muttering about how "these things might be cursed," while Thrynn sat neatly, hands folded, already preparing herself for the journey ahead.
Outside, drivers shouted final calls, wheels groaned, and one by one the carriages lurched forward, rolling out of the misty square and onto the road beyond.