He closed the distance anyway, watching for the glint of a rifle through the jaundiced twilight. The mud sucked at his boots, thick as soup. Lady Caladwen didn't falter, even when it meant stepping ankle-deep in the rutted track. She watched the world ahead, not the mess beneath her feet.
Mira motioned for Soren to stand left. She approached the door, gloves off, hand open. "We're coming in," she called, voice pitched for civility or a slow surrender—hard to say which.
A shuffle, then the door cracked open. A round, pink face blinked at them, eyebrows lost somewhere above the receded hairline. The man wore a guard's uniform, or a leftover piece of one, and in his hands, a teacup rattled faintly.
"Welcome to Northwind relay," the man said, attempting dignity but overshooting into a kind of helpless optimism.
