"We are not surviving this river if you two keep treating a tactical retreat like a leisurely afternoon boating excursion," Zinnia hissed, her boots sinking two inches into the aromatic pine shavings that littered the cooper's communal yard. She slammed the back flap of the wagon shut with enough force to rattle the freshly boiled pitch sealing the canvas seams. "The cooper’s wife said the garrison patrols check this village every three days. Today is day three." "Relax, Zinnia, the master cooper assured me his vats are completely sound," Alistair murmured, adjusting his spectacles while desperately trying to scrape a glob of sticky, black pine pitch off the sleeve of his best woolen coat. "Besides, we have a repaired wheel, a fully sealed roof, and a charming little village square that smells intensely of oak and vinegar. What could possibly go wrong?" "Everything," Aetherion drawled from his perch on an overturned barre

 "If that municipal barge rounds the bend before we clear this raised stone embankment, we are finished," Zinnia muttered, her gloved hands white-knuckled against the reins as the wagon lurched violently over a protruding cobblestone. The iron-rimmed wheels shrieked in protest against the uneven masonry, sending a fresh shower of sparks flying into the gray, damp air of the early morning. "Alistair, stop muttering over those ridiculous notes and tell me if the map matches this godforsaken stretch of road." "It matches, it matches, though I fail to see why we had to abandon the cooper's warm yard at three in the morning," Alistair snapped back, his spectacles sliding halfway down his nose as he frantically juggled three different parchment scrolls in the cramped, bouncing interior of the carriage. He shoved his wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose with an ink-stained finger, squinting wildly through the rain-spattered side window. "Acco

 "The limestone track begins fifty paces past the old irrigation ditch," Aetherion murmured, his lazy drawl completely at odds with the dangerous urgency humming through his posture as he peered over the side of the creeping carriage. "And if we don't turn right this exact second, the High-Bridge garrison patrol currently chatting up the ferry master behind us is going to spot our fresh tracks and realize we didn't drown in the rice paddies." "I see the track," Zinnia bit out, her jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in her cheek as she hauled back on the left rein with all the strength in her upper body. "Alistair, keep your head down and stop rustling those wretched maps before I pitch them out the window into the mud." "These maps represent the entire legal framework of our defense, Zinnia!" Alistair protested, ducking his head hastily as a low-hanging thorn branch scraped violently across the wagon’s newly patched can

 "Move the crate, Aetherion, or we'll be trapped in the dark by our own supplies," Zinnia said, her voice cutting sharply through the echoing chill of the quarry gallery as she shoved a heavy box of iron spikes out of the way with her boot. "I am moving it as fast as physics and my nonexistent enthusiasm for manual labor allow," Aetherion drawled, though he heaved the heavy timber container aside with a sharp grunt, kicking up a cloud of ancient white dust that sparkled eerily in the flickering amber glow of their single tallow candle. "Honestly, Zinnia, you treat this abandoned excavation like a forward operating base instead of a temporary hole in the wall to wait out a mountain hailstorm." "Because every abandoned hole in this godforsaken province either has wolves, bandits, or tax collectors squatting in it," Zinnia retorted, not looking up as she checked the tension of the canvas lashings over the wagon. "And right now, I'd

 "The chassis is holding, but if we hit another limestone shelf like that last one, the entire axle is going to snap like a dried willow switch," Zinnia said, her voice sharp and devoid of any lingering sleepiness as she kicked the heavy iron-shod wheel of the wagon. A sharp, metallic clink rang out across the silent mountain plateau, echoing off the towering white limestone cliffs that soared into the pale, cloudless dawn sky. The storm had passed as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving behind a world encased in a blinding blanket of ice-dusted hail that crunched like broken glass beneath Zinnia's heavy boots. Every surface of the plateau gleamed with an unearthly, crystalline brilliance, reflecting the harsh morning light straight up into their tired eyes. Alistair groaned, struggling out from beneath a pile of damp wool blankets inside the wagon box and rubbing his aching neck with both hands. "Must you inspect the structural