The road narrowed just past the old mile marker, the stone half-buried in weeds and moss as if the land itself had grown tired of remembering distance.
Isolde noticed it because Marcus slowed his horse without being told.
She did not ask why. She had learned, over the last months, that Marcus did not hesitate without reason—and that when he did, it was better to observe first and speak second.
Ahead, a merchant cart lay tipped on its side. One wheel had been smashed cleanly, the wood split with deliberate precision rather than the chaos of panic. Crates lay open, but not emptied indiscriminately. Cloth and preserved goods were gone. Tools, cookware, even coin purses remained scattered in the dirt.
Selective.
Marcus dismounted and approached the wreckage, crouching beside the broken wheel. He ran his fingers along the splintered edge, eyes narrowed.
"Not looters," he said quietly.
