As the carriage continued its journey through the night. The carriage rattled down the paved highway that cut through the valley toward Solhaven. To anyone else, the smooth road represented speed and safety.

  To Ray, it looked like they were leaving footprints that leads to them.

  Inside the carriage, the heavy silence was broken by a loud, confused sniff.

  Rina lifted her arm, burying her nose in the fabric of her cloak. She blinked, then sniffed again, harder.

  "Captain,"

  Rina whispered, poking Svane’s arm.

  "Why are we clean and do I smell... expensive?"

  The massive Captain, just suddenly realized when Rina asked, he looked down and inspected his leather armor with a deeply furrowed brow, he looked up. He ran a gloved finger over where there was supposed to be blood that had dried. His finger came away perfectly clean. His armor gleamed as if it had just been polished by a squire for a parade.

  "The sewer muck, the blood, the soot. It’s all gone."

  Svane rumbled, sounding genuinely disturbed.

  Svane then also noticed that the whole cabin is clean and smell pristine.

  "Did you do it? You used a high level magic right?"

  Rina asked, looking at him suspiciously.

  Svane snorted, looking offended.

  "I'm a Spellsword, Rina, not a laundry maid. I use Prestidigitation to warm up my tea or clean a wine stain. To scrub three people and an entire carriage interior?"

  He shook his head, looking at his pristine boots.

  "That requires a level of mana control that is frankly insulting to use on dirt."

  Rina patted her now-spotless clothes, grinning as she leaned back.

  "Well, remind me to tip the Janitor. I was ready to burn this outfit."

  Ray ignored them. He sat by the window, watching the mile markers blur past. His mind was racing, planning for contingencies. The events at the Thorne Manor and later on in Iron-Wake City was a beacon; by now, the smoke would be visible for miles. The Argent Hand wouldn't just send firefighters; they would send interceptors. They would track down the main roads, bribe the toll collectors, and check every carriage moving away from the blast zone.

  If we stay on this road, we lead them right to our front door.

  Ray realized.

  They will track all incoming and outgoing traffic in the domain.

  Ray reached into his bag of holding and pulled out a map of the Southern Province. He spread it out on his knees, the dim light of the carriage lamp illuminating the ink.

  He traced the main artery they were currently on. It was a straight shot, but it passed through three major toll checkpoints, all prime spots for our presence to be recorded. He needed a bypass.

  His finger slid west, finding a faint, jagged line cutting through the heavy timber.

  "There."

  Ray whispered.

  He made a decision.

  Ray reached up and rapped his knuckles hard against the wooden partition separating the cabin from the driver’s seat. He slid the small viewing hatch open.

  "Driver! Change of plans,"

  Ray commanded, his voice cutting over the wind.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The driver, a nervous man who kept glancing back at the red glow on the horizon, looked down.

  "My lord? The main road is the fastest way to Solhaven. We can make the gates by noon if we…"

  "We aren't going to Solhaven,"

  Ray interrupted sharply.

  "Get off the main road at the next fork. Take the Old Furrier’s Route."

  The driver balked.

  "The Furrier’s Route? That’s a dirt track, sir! It winds through the heavy timber. It’ll add a full day to the trip!"

  "That is fine,”

  Ray said calmly.

  “we need to make a stop at Briar’s Crossing. We have some business there.""

  The driver had no choice but to follow as he has been paid a premium for this whole excursion.

  "Y-yes, my lord. The Furrier's Route. Understood."

  The carriage lurched as the driver hauled on the reins, veering them off the smooth cobblestones and onto a rutted, overgrown track that disappeared into the treeline.

  The carriage vanished from the main road like it was never there.

  The sudden transition was jarring. The carriage hit a deep rut, causing the cabin to violently shake. Svane, who had been dozing with one eye open, straightened up, bracing his hand against the ceiling to steady himself.

  "What happened? Did we change routes?"

  Svane grunted, looking out at the thick, encroaching forest.

  "The main road is paved. This goat path will double our travel time. Is the detour necessary?"

  "Speed is irrelevant if we are tracked,"

  Ray answered, folding the map and tucking it back away.

  "The Argent Hand controls the Iron-Wake Domain; they will have eyes on the toll booths and the watchtowers on the highway. If we stay on that road, the Hand can easily track us once they start investigating."

  Ray looked out into the dark woods.

  "On the highway, we are targets. Out here, in the weeds? We are ghosts."

  Svane understood what Ray wanted to do, they needed to clear their traces.

  They arrived at Briar’s Crossing just as the sun was struggling to burn through the morning mist.

  It wasn't much of a town. It was a trade waypoint, a cluster of timber buildings clinging to the side of a river, existing solely to feed, bed, and shoe the horses of travelers passing through. The air smelled of woodsmoke, damp moss, and river mud.

  "We stop here for now."

  Ray announced, signaling the driver.

  They pulled up to an inn that looked like it had been leaning to the left for the last fifty years. It wasn't luxurious, but it was busy enough to be anonymous.

  Ray went inside and booked three rooms. One for himself, one for the women, and one for Svane. Then, he booked a fourth room under a fake name at the other end of the hall, a dummy target, just in case anyone was asking questions.

  "Let us rest,"

  Ray ordered them as they hauled their gear upstairs.

  "We sleep until dusk. Then we will continue our journey."

  The adrenaline of the escape had long since faded, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion that made their limbs feel like lead.

  By late afternoon, the inn’s common room was beginning to fill up with merchants and farmhands.

  Rina couldn't sleep. The silence of the room was too loud. The memories of the burning manor and the people that were captured which she had set free. She kept thinking about those people at the back of her mind. She decided to take her mind off it. She needed noise. She needed life.

  She went downstairs, bought a cheap ale, and started doing what she did best: blending in. She moved from table to table, talking to people, listening to their stories and their complaints, and absorbing the local gossip like a sponge.

  Svane was there, too. But he wasn't socializing.

  The massive Captain sat in a high-backed chair near the door, nursing a single mug of cider he hadn't touched in an hour. He wasn't relaxing; he was posting guard. His eyes tracked every person who entered or left the inn, his hand resting casually near the hilt of his sword hidden under his cloak.

  Rina flopped down into the chair opposite him, looking flushed and slightly more alive.

  "You’re going to scare the customers looking like that, Captain,"

  Rina teased, taking a sip of her ale.

  "Relax. Nobody here knows us."

  Svane grunted.

  "Complacency kills."

  "You're no fun,"

  Rina sighed, leaning back.

  "You know, this town is a mess. I just listened to a wool merchant. Apparently, the blacksmith’s daughter ran off with a traveler that stopped by this town, and the Mayor is sleeping with the Baker’s wife to get free pastries. The farmer down the road? He swears a goblin stole his prize pig, but everyone knows he just ate it himself in a drunken stupor."

  She rattled on, unloading the trivial, mundane drama of Briar’s Crossing. It was her way of decompressing, filling her head with other people’s small problems so she didn't have to think about the giant ones waiting for them in Solhaven.

  Svane stared at the door, his face unmoving. He looked like a statue carved from granite. Rina assumed he was tuning her out, but she kept talking anyway, just glad for the company.

  "And get this,"

  Rina laughed,

  "The Baker apparently thinks the Mayor is just a really good customer. Can you believe the obliviousness?"

  "The Mayor is not sleeping with the Baker’s wife."

  Svane said, his voice a low rumble.

  Rina paused, her mug halfway to her mouth.

  "What?"

  Svane took a slow sip of his cider, his eyes never leaving the entrance.

  "The Baker is the Mayor’s cousin,"

  Svane corrected flatly.

  "I heard the innkeeper complaining about it when we checked in. It’s not an affair; it’s nepotism. He’s diverting the town’s grain subsidy to the bakery to cut costs."

  Rina stared at him. The stoic, stone-faced wall of a man had been listening to every word of the gossip in the room while simultaneously guarding the door.

  A grin spread across her face.

  "Captain,"

  she giggled.

  "You big gossip."

  Svane grunted again, hiding a flicker of embarrassment behind his mug.

  "Know your terrain, Rina. Even the small details."