"Awoooohh—oooohh—oooohh!" a distant wolf howled.
"Awoooo!" "Oooohhh!" Inside the yard, another wolf answered.
Marla snorted, ladle in hand. "If they keep that choir up, I'll charge them for rehearsal space."
Before the light, Tristan came out of his cabin to start his rounds. He walked the yard with a ledger under his arm and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
He checked the lock on the storehouse, the clasp on the coin box, the seal on the deep well's grate, and the ward posts Mira had set in each corner.
A clerk—young, careful, already ink-stained—paced beside him with the key ring and marked each check on a slate.
The wolves finished their night rounds and swapped with the morning patrol without fuss—one team to the ridge, one to the road, one to the yard.
The waystation's hall smelled of bread and hot stew. Inside the kitchen, Eira sat near the hearth with a steaming cup in both hands. She had yesterday's slate on her knees and had added three neat lines at sunrise:
