They met the merchant convoy on the morning of the eighth day.
Six carts waited in a loose cluster just beyond the last cleared waystation. The lead driver sat high on the bench, reins loose in his hands, while the rest of the group stood in a wary half-circle.
Their master was a thin man named Harren with ink-stained fingers and a habit of glancing over his shoulder even when the road behind him was empty.
He paid the remaining advance without haggling the moment he saw the waystations empty of fresh graves and the road markers still standing.
His own hired blades were a mixed lot—two who held themselves like they knew the work, three who looked competent enough if nothing went sideways, and one who watched Atlas a little too long before deciding that silence was the safer choice.
Clara counted the coin twice and recorded it in the ledger. Eli walked the length of the carts, testing axles with the heel of her boot and checking the weakest points in the harnesses.
