The river wind had not turned yet.
That was the only generous thing about the morning.
Blue-green fire crawled beneath the freight wagon while luminous specks climbed through the smoke. Ren looked at the washout, the wagon, then the bronze-and-black Cuff beneath his bandages.
One anchor on the road.
One on the frame.
Drag the whole thing sideways before the wind changed.
Fast.
Probably possible.
"No."
Sylvaine stood beside him with a wet cloth over her mouth.
Ren blinked. "I didn’t say anything."
"You looked at your wrist like a man preparing an argument."
"That is unfairly observant."
"Show me."
Maelis heard and did not interfere.
Ren unwound enough bandage for Sylvaine to inspect the skin beneath the Cuff’s edge.
The old burn was angry again from sweat, hauling, and a night without sleep. Redness followed the Bond line into his forearm.
Sylvaine pressed two fingers above it.
Pain jumped.
Ren’s face betrayed him.
"Another overload could turn temporary nerve irritation into permanent damage," she said. "You may eventually have an excellent reason to risk your arm. This is not one."
"The river—"
"Needs a solution. It does not specifically need your injury."
Brinna, seated on an overturned crate with her braced leg extended, lifted one hand.
"I have a solution."
Ren looked at her.
"Does it involve your cracked Artifact?"
"No. I enjoy having tools tomorrow."
Maelis sheathed her sword.
"Explain."
Brinna pointed with a charcoal stub.
"The wagon’s underframe is still carrying. The cargo floor is split, but the side rails are intact. We do not open the crates. We cap the broken underside with sheet iron, wet canvas, and clay from the washout. Then we lash the entire frame onto runners."
"Skid," Kellan said.
Brinna glanced at him. "You have been listening."
He stood slightly taller.
"We pull it thirty paces into the stone drainage cut north-west of the road," Brinna continued. "Lower than the wind line, away from the patients, away from dry grass, and far enough from the river approach that runoff does not carry toward water."
Nia had already started moving.
"I’ll check the cut."
Maelis pointed after her. "Wind, footing, creature sign, and a second route out."
Nia raised two fingers without turning.
"Kellan," Maelis said. "Horses and pull teams. No one stands inside a tensioned line."
"Yes, Commander."
"Ren. You work for Brinna."
Brinna smiled. "I have been trying to arrange that."
"Temporarily," Maelis said.
"Cruel woman."
The next half hour was less heroic than dragging a burning wagon with impossible magic.
It was also much harder to do wrong.
Brinna chose two iron panels from her wrecked workshop. Ren and three caravan workers slid them beneath the leaking floor using poles. Wet canvas went over the split seams. Clay followed, packed thick enough that the blue-green glow dimmed behind brown mud.
Brinna inspected every rope herself.
She did not use Temper again.
When her hand drifted toward the cracked clasp once, Sylvaine said, "No."
Brinna’s hand moved away.
"You are ruining my professional image."
"I am preserving your professional equipment."
"Worse."
Nia returned.
"Drainage cut is clear. Stone base. No fresh tracks. Wind still south-west, but it is starting to wander."
"How long?" Maelis asked.
"Maybe twenty minutes before I stop trusting it."
Maelis nodded.
"Then we move in ten."
Kellan brought four draft horses from the northern holding line. He paired them by temperament instead of strength, checked every trace, and moved the caravan workers behind the wheel line.
Ren noticed.
"You’ve done this before."
"Farm work," Kellan said. "Actually this time."
Ren laughed.
Brinna’s skid used two stripped wagon doors as runners beneath the iron-capped frame. A block from her workshop changed the pull angle without requiring anyone near the burning side.
The plan looked ugly.
It looked excellent.
Maelis waited until Sylvaine had every patient north of the blue markers.
"Pull."
The horses leaned.
Wood groaned.
The freight frame shifted six inches and stopped.
Nobody shouted encouragement.
Brinna checked the runner.
"Left front is biting. Ren, wedge. Kellan, slack the second team two handspans."
They obeyed.
"Again."
The wagon moved.
Blue smoke rolled low beneath the wet canvas, but the clay held.
Ten paces.
Twenty.
At twenty-four, one runner split.
Ren’s hand moved toward the Cuff by reflex.
Sylvaine saw it from across the road.
"Ren."
Just his name.
He stopped.
Brinna threw him a short iron bar.
"Use civilization."
He caught it with his left hand.
"Less dramatic."
"More reusable."
They levered a spare plank beneath the broken runner.
At thirty paces, the freight frame slid down into the stone drainage cut.
Maelis ordered the horses away.
Brinna directed another layer of wet clay and sheet iron over the exposed underside. The last visible blue flame disappeared beneath earth.
Luminous specks still rose for several minutes.
Then fewer.
Then none.
Nia stood on the road embankment with one hand raised into the air.
The wind changed.
It passed over the wreck toward the river.
Nothing glowing went with it.
Maelis exhaled.
"Scene containment holds. Nobody touches that cargo until provincial recovery arrives."
The manifest remained sealed in her evidence pouch. The Vadd mark remained where three witnesses had seen it. The contaminated wagon stayed isolated at the wreck instead of traveling anywhere near Asterfall.
Only then did Sylvaine begin clearing people to leave.
Twenty-four travelers remained with the caravan.
Six needed beds and observation.
Three more could travel if supported and checked at stops.
The other fifteen were exhausted, frightened, bruised, or filthy rather than medically injured.
The caravan master looked toward the north road.
"Your hall can take twenty-four?"
Ren said, "Our hall can attempt twenty-four. Elara decides whether the building agrees."
"I heard that," Maelis said.
"Good. I was hoping someone responsible would."
The caravan master signed the emergency-shelter request.
No price was written.
Not yet.
By the time the first repaired wagon started north, Sylvaine finally sat Ren on the handcart.
"You are last because you are stable," she said.
"Comforting."
"It should be."
She cleaned the aggravated burn, rewrapped his wrist, and made him answer questions about numbness, tremor, and dizziness without letting him turn any answer into a joke.
When she finished, she kept hold of his left wrist for one quiet second.
"I did notice you before I became responsible for treating you."
Ren looked at her.
Sylvaine’s expression remained calm.
"That does not make treatment permission for anything else."
"I understand."
"Good."
Her fingers released him.
Ren smiled. "For the record, being ordered not to permanently damage myself is making an excellent first impression."
"That was almost flirting."
"Almost."
"I will permit almost."
Late afternoon found the damaged caravan climbing the last rise into Asterfall.
Twenty-four travelers.
Three moving wagons.
One mobile workshop dragged on a temporary axle.
Nine injured people under Sylvaine’s rules.
The heartmoss cargo remained quarantined behind them.
Brinna rode beside Ren on the handcart, her braced leg propped on a blanket.
The Old Crossroads Guild Hall appeared beyond the fields.
Temporary roof canvas.
Crooked stable.
Patched chimney.
One visibly questionable upper corner.
Brinna stared at it.
Then she turned slowly toward Ren.
"Does your roof always lean like that?"