The morning rush had passed, but the waystation did not fall quiet. Merchants lingered, arguing over pack lists and squinting at account slates.
Outside, horses stamped in the yard. Wolves prowled the ridge lines, their sharp eyes scanning the horizon.
Eira stood by the kitchen hearth, sleeves rolled up, her hair sticking to her brow. She had already washed three kettles and scrubbed the long table twice. She was reaching for a bundle of herbs to hang by the door when Marla returned from the small storeroom, her arms crossed.
"We have a problem," Marla said flatly.
Eira paused. "What kind of problem?"
"The flour barrel's half empty. We had enough for this morning, but if two more caravans pass through before new supplies arrive, we'll run out."
Eira frowned. "But the accounts said this waystation was stocked last week."
