The horses steamed in the cold, legs stamping up clots of last season's mud and frost. Soren stepped down first, boots crunching the snow-cured pine needles, then turned to watch Mira help the Lady from the carriage like nothing about this was ever improvised.
She accepted Mira's hand, gave Soren a brief, assessing look, and vanished into the waystation's dark. Even before the door thudded shut, Mira started her prowl, out around the clearing, long knife loose in her hand, eyes skipping over the treeline like she expected the forest to cough up another ambush.
Soren waited for the shift, how now, with the Lady safe behind old timber, the pressure fell on him alone. He shrugged out of the coat, flexing the chill into his arms, and let the weight of the sword ride easy on his back.
