Two months after Arlen left, the road to Brindleford opened for Al.
It didn't feel like an opening. It felt like an argument.
"I don't see why he has to go this season," Old Harik grumbled at the village council table. "Floes in the river are barely gone. The road's mud. Let him wait a year, learn more here."
"And pay his keep for another year when the Brindleford factor is offering to house and feed him as an apprentice," Toren's uncle shot back. "We're not so fat on grain we can sit lads on benches just because Bren likes the look of their feet."
"He's my son," Corin said, voice even. "Not a sack of grain."
"So pay like he is, then," the uncle retorted. "No one's saying he shouldn't go. Just that we're not paying more than the usual apprentice tithe."
Selene cleared her throat. The noisy room—Greyfall's small meeting hall, which doubled as overflow inn space when caravans came through—stilled.
"The Brindleford factor is offering terms better than usual," she said, tapping the scroll she held. "Room, board, basic wage from year two, travel protection there and back if he returns in good standing. In exchange, three years minimum service."
"That's a long time," Lian said quietly from the back.
"It is," Selene said. "It's also the difference between Al learning the logistics of a full regional hub, and him spending the next five years copying my old manifests until the ink runs dry."
Everyone looked at Al.
He sat on a bench near the wall, hands folded tight in his lap. Ressa stood behind him, one shoulder leaning on the post. Jana sat near Selene, clutching her satchel.
Father Edran watched from a shadowed corner, staff across his knees, saying nothing.
"Al?" Corin prompted. "We've said our piece. This is your choice."
That still startled him a little—that they were asking, not ordering.
He licked dry lips. "What would I do in Brindleford? Specifically."
Selene's eyes warmed. Of course that would be his question.
"Initially," she said, "you'd assist in the factor's office: ledgers, inventories, basic route mapping. The factor ships along the Greyreach—Xianwu corridor. Caravans, small barges. You'd learn how much food moves where, how fast, at what cost."
"After he decides you're not an idiot," Toren's uncle added, "you might get sent along a run as a clerk, counting crates and watching for theft. Maybe you'll see a bit of Greyreach Hold. Maybe Hanyue's outskirts."
Al thought of the maps Selene had shown him: Greyfall as a dot on a line between bigger dots. Brindleford three days downriver, at the junction of two trade roads. Greyreach Hold a fortress-city beyond that; Hanyue Fort-Town further east.
"I'd be…useful," he said slowly. "Not just…underfoot."
"You're useful here," Lian said, voice low but firm. "Don't confuse small with useless."
"I know," he said quickly. "I just…want to see how it all fits. Outside the village."
Silence stretched.
Corin sighed, rubbing his forehead. "You'll write," he said. "Often. Even if it's just to complain about your master's soup."
Al swallowed a lump. "I will."
Edran finally spoke. "I would suggest a blessing," he said, "but Logos tends to frown when we use it to ask for good pay and decent travel food."
A few chuckles eased the tension.
The vote—informal, but still a formality—went in favor.
"Brindleford it is," Selene said. She looked at Al. "We leave with the factor's caravan in four days. That gives you time to say your goodbyes and help with inventory so I don't curse you the first time I see your handwriting in their books."
Ressa kicked the back of his bench lightly. "See? Hook's getting new waters."
He turned his head. "You could come," he said before he could stop himself.
Ressa's grin faltered. "Yeah. Greyfall's factor is just dying to take on the tanner's half-legal daughter who can barely stand still for a full sentence."
"He'd be stupid not to," Al said. "You know people. Routes. Where things get lost."
"I also know when I'd get in the way," she said, a little too quickly. "Go. Learn. I'll make sure Greyfall doesn't forget your face."
"Bold of you to assume anyone could forget this nose," he said, trying to keep his tone light.
Her eyes shone, and she punched his shoulder much harder than necessary. "Idiot."
The next days blurred.
Selene had him in the Scriptorium from dawn till dusk, copying Brindleford forms until his fingers cramped.
"This," she said, rapping a neat column titled Cargo Account, Spring Run, "is more powerful than you think."
"It's boxes and numbers," he said, flexing his hand.
"It's how we bring metal from Veltmark mines downriver, grain from Hanyue, fish from Yamatoan traders, lumber from Beastkin fringes. Without this, armies starve and sects go hungry and nobles get very cross." She tilted her head. "You want to understand wars? Follow the lines of ink before the lines of blood."
He swallowed. "I will."
At the training yard, Bren ran him through drills one last time.
"You're not going to be a frontliner," Bren said without preamble as Al wheezed through a block-and-step. "Not like Arlen. That ship's sailed. But you're not leaving here soft."
He adjusted Al's elbow. "You learn to hold a spear well enough that if some bastard of a raider comes at your ledger, you can stick him in the gut and go back to writing."
"Yes, Master," Al puffed.
Bren's mouth twitched. "You're sharper than most boys I've seen. Use it. But don't depend on other people's arms to protect that brain of yours. They break."
Ressa helped him pack the night before.
"You're taking too many books," she complained, tossing a second-bladed knife into his pack. "And not enough knives. Or food."
"We're traveling with a caravan," he said. "They have food."
"Caravans lose food," she said. "And you forget to eat when you're reading. So." She jabbed a wrapped loaf into the side pocket. "For when Selene's not looking."
He held up the knife. "Do you know how to use this?"
"Pointy end in the bad person," she said. "If it's not enough, throw it and run."
"Sound strategy," he said.
"Better than dying with a quill in your hand," she muttered.
Jana brought him a small, carefully folded packet.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Paper," she said, cheeks pink. "From Selene's better stock. And a new quill. So you don't have an excuse not to write actual letters and not just ledgers."
He swallowed. "Thank you."
"And…" She hesitated. "And a copy of the map we finished last month. Greyfall to Brindleford to Greyreach. I marked the resting wells and shrine points. So if you get lost, you can…un-get lost."
"You think I'll get lost?" he asked.
"You get lost in your head all the time," Jana said. "This is just for your feet."
He laughed, a little wetly. "I'll write. Both of you. I promise."
"You'd better," Ressa said. "Or I'll sign my name on the bottom of one of your guild contracts and demand hazard pay."
They both hugged him, briefly, awkwardly. It was enough.
Brindleford came into view three days later.
The caravan—six wagons, a dozen guards, two drovers, Selene, Al, and the Brindleford factor's assistant—had rumbled along the Greyreach road under a sky that shifted from grey to blue and back again. They'd passed two burned farmsteads, one fortified hamlet, and a patrol of Greyreach soldiers who'd eyed their papers and their cargo with bored suspicion.
Al had spent most of the journey riding in the lead wagon's front bench, feet braced, trying not to fall when the wheels hit ruts. He'd watched the land roll by: low hills, scraggly copses, the river keeping lazy pace on their right.
Selene had made him read the manifests aloud until he stopped stumbling over the formal Aurelion contract phrasing.
"Cargo list," she said now, holding out a parchment without looking up from her own book. "Read."
He took it, cleared his throat. "Six crates dried fish, three barrels Greyfall grain, two bales tanned hides, one crate mixed herbs and resin, destination Brindleford Trade House. Condition: intact. Seal: Greyfall council mark."
"Good," she said. "Now tell me what that actually means."
He frowned. "It means…if we lose a barrel, Brindleford gets a reason to short-change Greyfall on payment. If we arrive early, the fish sells better. If we arrive late, the hides might dry and crack. The herbs might lose potency if they were cut too green. We make more coin if we hit market day instead of the day after."
Selene's mouth quirked. "See? Already thinking like someone who doesn't want to go hungry."
He folded the parchment. "And the guards?"
"What about them?" she asked.
"They eat, too," Al said. "If we underpay, they might look the other way when bandits show up. Or steal from us and blame it on 'shrinkage.' If we overpay, we lose profit that could buy extra grain back home."
"Why is it always grain with you?" she asked, amused.
"Because if I get it wrong, people starve," he said simply.
She was quiet for a moment. "Good answer," she said.
When Brindleford finally rose on the horizon, Al nearly dropped the ink pot Selene had made him hold.
Greyfall was a cluster of houses and one inn. Brindleford was…a thing.
It sprawled along a bend in the Greyreach river, twice the size of Greyfall and then some. Timber palisades ringed it, taller and thicker than his village's. Smoke rose from a dozen chimneys at once. The shouts of a hundred voices drifted faintly on the wind. Barges were tied up at a stout dock, their hulls rocking gently. The road split and braided as it approached the gate, carts bottlenecking.
"Welcome to something slightly larger than a muddy ditch," Selene said dryly. "Don't stare with your mouth open; you'll catch flies."
Al shut his mouth.
As they queued for entry, he watched everything.
The guards at Brindleford's gate wore better armor than Greyfall's militia, but their poses told stories: one with a limp favoring his right leg, one whose eyes tracked everyone's hands, not their faces. A tiled roof on a nearby house had a patch of newer shingles—recent storm damage. The posts near the guardhouse had sets of carved notches where wagoners marked wait times when the line was long. The air smelled of fish, damp wood, too many people.
His fingers itched for a quill.
"This," Selene murmured, leaning close, "is what you wanted. A place where roads cross. Watch, and see which lines matter."
He did.
He saw how the guards checked seals on crates with bored efficiency, but weighed purses from certain merchants more than others. He noticed the small, hooded figure slipping between wagons with practiced ease, hand dipping into pouches, then vanishing into a crack between buildings. He saw a small shrine-stone near the gate with the sun-and-scroll of Logos carved into it, half-covered in dust, but the area around it scuffed from many hurried footsteps.
He saw opportunities. Weaknesses. Patterns.
And for the first time since the elder had refused to take him up the mountain, he felt something like hunger that wasn't just in his belly.
The caravan shuddered forward. The factor's assistant—Bran, a thin man with a perpetually pinched expression—flashed their documents at the gate.
"Greyfall shipment," he called. "Under contract with Brindleford Trade House."
The guard checked the seal, squinted at Al.
"Apprentice?" he asked.
"Clerk in training," Bran said before Al could answer.
The guard grunted. "You lot breed like rats out there. Fine. Don't get underfoot."
They rolled into Brindleford.
Inside, the town was a tangle.
Streets wound in ways that had once made sense to someone and now simply existed. Market stalls crowded every open space, spilling with dried fish, rough linen, small charms hanging on cords. Children darted between carts. A woman shouted the price of hot dumplings. Somewhere, someone hammered metal.
"First lesson," Selene said. "Don't look lost. Second lesson: this—" she tapped the rolled manifest in his hands "—is your shield. People are less likely to shove someone who might be in charge of their pay."
He clutched it a little tighter.
As they passed a crossroads, Al caught sight of a building that made his breath hitch: a two-story stone-and-timber house with a painted sign showing a compass and quill crossing each other.
"The Gilded Compass?" he blurted.
Selene glanced over. "Local chapter only. Don't get ideas. Yet."
Ahead, the wagons turned toward a sturdier structure near the river: thick doors, barred windows, a sign reading Brindleford Trade House & Factorium in neat Aurelion script, with a smaller line in Eastern characters beneath.
"This is home for the foreseeable future," Selene said. "You'll hate it and love it. Mostly hate it, at first."
Al stared at the building, at the bustle around it, at the flow of goods in and out. The threads here were thicker, more tangled, more dangerous.
He smiled, a small, hungry curve.
Good.
He stepped down from the wagon, boots hitting packed earth that wasn't ash for the first time in a very long while.
Far away, on a very different road, Arlen was somewhere between Greyreach and a mountain he couldn't yet see, stumbling through his own first steps.
Al squared his shoulders, clutched the manifests, and followed Selene toward the Trade House doors.
The world was bigger. His place in it was still small.
But at least, finally, he'd put his feet onto a road that led somewhere he'd chosen.