Spring crowds filled the capital's main market as Elaine walked beside Riona through the busy square. Merchants sold fresh produce and early flowers, their voices competing with the general din of commerce. People stepped aside as they passed, their expressions a mixture of respect and something deeper.

  "The Mother herself..." "...blessed by the Mother's touch..." "...my cousin in Oakvale said the Mother saved..."

  The whispers followed them, not bothering to fade as they passed. Elaine noted the pattern—these references had increased since her return from the plague-stricken provinces.

  "They've been calling you that more frequently," Riona observed, following Elaine's gaze toward a woman who had crossed the street rather than walk directly in their path.

  "It's unnecessary," Elaine replied.

  "Yet persistent." Riona gestured toward a shop at the market's edge. "This way. I'd like you to meet someone."

  Unlike the temporary stalls dominating the square, this establishment featured permanent walls and glass windows displaying imported goods. The sign read 'Davian's Trading Company' in simple lettering.

  "A merchant?" Elaine asked.

  "One who travels the northern route to Vestria regularly." Riona's tone was casual, but her eyes held purpose. "Given the recent border reports, I thought his perspective might be useful."

  The shop door opened before they reached it. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair emerged, his practical clothing of good quality without unnecessary embellishment. His eyes widened slightly upon seeing them.

  "Councilor Riona," he called, genuine warmth in his voice. "An unexpected pleasure." His gaze shifted to Elaine, recognition immediate. He offered a respectful nod. "Healer Elaine. Your reputation precedes you."

  "Davian, just returning from your northern journey?" Riona asked.

  "Three days ago." He gestured inside. "Please, join me for tea? The mountain blend has just arrived."

  The shop interior was organized for function rather than show—shelves stocked with goods from various regions, practical items arranged by origin rather than appearance. A small table with three chairs occupied a corner near the back, already set with a simple tea service.

  "You were expecting guests," Elaine noted.

  "In this business, one always keeps tea ready," Davian replied as he poured. His movements were efficient, suggesting years of similar hospitality. "Information follows trade routes as predictably as goods."

  Elaine observed how Riona and Davian exchanged glances—familiarity evident beyond mere professional acquaintance. The merchant assessed Elaine without obvious scrutiny, his manner suggesting a man accustomed to evaluating people quickly.

  "Your work in the eastern provinces has created quite a stir," he said, offering Elaine a cup. "News travels surprisingly fast, even across borders."

  "I simply healed those who needed healing," Elaine replied.

  "Healing an entire region's worth of plague victims in weeks rather than months hardly qualifies as simple by most standards," Davian noted. "My own sister's family in Eastcross were among those you saved. They had been given death rites when you arrived."

  He inclined his head slightly. "My personal gratitude, for that alone."

  Riona accepted her tea. "Davian's caravans passed through those provinces shortly after your work there. His observations provide perspective on how neighboring regions view recent events."

  "The Vestrian border settlements had prepared for the plague's arrival," Davian explained. "Then, almost overnight, the threat disappeared." He sipped his tea. "It shifted their attention elsewhere rather quickly."

  "An unexpected positive outcome," Elaine said.

  "For those who feared the plague, certainly," Davian agreed. "Though I noticed increased patrols along their border during my return journey. More soldiers than traders typically encounter."

  Riona set her cup down. "How many?"

  "Double the usual number at every checkpoint," Davian replied. "New fortifications under construction at three key crossings. Supply wagons moving north rather than being distributed to border settlements."

  The information was delivered factually, without embellishment or speculation.

  "You think they're preparing for something," Riona stated.

  "I think prudent merchants should consider alternate trade routes for the coming season," Davian answered carefully.

  Elaine considered this information. Throughout her time in this world, she had focused primarily on immediate needs—healing those before her, addressing visible suffering. Political tensions between kingdoms remained peripheral concerns.

  "Your next caravan departs soon?" she asked.

  "Three days," Davian confirmed. "The spring goods are already packed."

  "I would like to invite you to visit the healing house," Elaine said, the decision forming as she spoke. "Perhaps tomorrow, if your preparations allow."

  Surprise registered briefly in his expression. "I would be honored."

  "Your trade routes serve many Vestrian communities?" Elaine asked.

  "Seventeen settlements along the main northern road," he replied. "My caravans have maintained these connections for three generations."

  "Then your understanding of cross-border relations would be valuable," Elaine stated simply. "I would appreciate hearing more about northern healing traditions before your departure."

  Riona's expression remained neutral, though something in her posture suggested satisfaction with this development.

  As they finished their tea, Elaine noticed a small shelf of carved figures near the back of the shop. Among them stood a simple wooden carving of a woman with outstretched hands, not unlike items that had begun appearing at the healing house shrine.

  Davian followed her gaze. "Religious tokens from various regions," he explained without elaboration. "Some travelers find comfort in such things."

  They departed shortly after, Davian promising to visit the healing house the following day. Outside, the market continued its commerce, vendors and customers haggling over spring goods.

  "He knows more than he said," Elaine observed as they walked.

  "Yes," Riona agreed. "Davian is cautious with information, especially regarding Vestria." After a moment, she added, "His family has maintained northern trading routes for generations. His insights have proven valuable to the Council on several occasions."

  Elaine nodded, understanding the subtext. The merchant's knowledge extended beyond commercial matters, and his connection to Riona suggested more than casual acquaintance.

  They passed a flower seller who hastily placed fresh blossoms at the corner of her stall as they approached. A baker nodded deeply, hand pressed briefly to his chest. Children pointed while parents quieted them with urgent whispers.

  The "Mother" title hung in the air around them, neither acknowledged nor directly challenged. Elaine had stated repeatedly what she was—a healer, nothing more. Yet the stories people told themselves had their own power, their own momentum. For now, she would continue her work, healing those who needed healing, regardless of what names they gave her.

  The consequences of such naming would reveal themselves in time.

  * * *

  Two cloaked figures approached the healing house through summer heat, their height and unusual stride setting them apart from typical visitors. The taller one supported the shorter with practiced care.

  Inside, Elaine finished setting a broken arm when Marta approached. "Two visitors have requested a private meeting," she said, lowering her voice. "They're not human."

  The private chamber's door opened moments later. The taller visitor lowered his hood, revealing high cheekbones, pointed ears, and amber eyes. His hair bore silver at the temples, bound in complex braids.

  "I am Thaelen," he said simply. His voice carried distinct tonal qualities. "Thank you for seeing us without prior arrangement."

  "You are welcome here," Elaine replied.

  The second figure removed his hood. Though he appeared young by human standards—perhaps in his late twenties—his skin had a disturbing quality. It was translucent in patches, particularly around his hands and throat, revealing the network of veins and structural tissues beneath.

  "This is my son, Lirael," Thaelen said. His formal composure briefly gave way to something more vulnerable. "He suffers from a condition our healers cannot cure."

  Elaine gestured toward the examination table. "May I?"

  Lirael sat on the edge, removing his cloak and outer tunic. The full extent of his condition became apparent. Across his chest and arms, his skin had thinned to near transparency in places, revealing muscle fibers contracting with each movement, blood vessels pulsing beneath.

  Elaine examined the translucent areas with clinical interest, studying how inner structures were clearly visible. She pressed gently at the border between normal and affected skin.

  "How long has this progressed?" she asked.

  "It began fifty years ago," Lirael answered. Despite his youthful appearance, his voice carried the weight of decades. "A slight weakness in my fingers first. Then the transparency appeared at my fingertips." He paused, his gaze steady despite the vulnerability of his condition. "The physicians say the Fading Sickness progresses over decades, sometimes taking up to two centuries before the body fails completely, though the mind remains sharp throughout. A slow decline into helplessness."

  "We call it the Fading Sickness," Thaelen added quietly as Elaine continued her examination. "It affects perhaps one in a thousand of our kind. For millennia, it has been deemed incurable."

  "Word of your work with the plague victims reached us," Thaelen said. "Your ability to cure what others cannot... it offered the first real hope we've had."

  Elaine considered the condition before her. She had never encountered it specifically, but the underlying pattern of deterioration was clear—a systematic unwinding of physical coherence while the life force remained intact.

  Without further questions, she placed her hands directly on Lirael's chest. Golden light appeared immediately, but behaved differently than with other difficult healings. Instead of flowing smoothly, it pulsed and flared, encountering resistance deep within Lirael's elven physiology. Her brow furrowed slightly—the first visible sign of effort she had shown in any healing since establishing the house.

  The light intensified, shifting from gold to deeper amber. It spread outward, enveloping both healer and patient. Within this cocoon, Lirael's translucent skin began to change—not instantly as with most other conditions Elaine treated, but gradually, opacity returning from depths to surface.

  A knock came at the door. When no response followed, it opened quietly to reveal Riona. The councilor stopped abruptly, taking in the scene before her—the amber glow surrounding Elaine and the seated elf, the visible strain on Elaine's face, and Thaelen standing nearby, watching with rigid attention.

  Riona's eyes widened as she recognized the watching elf. She stepped inside without a word, closing the door silently behind her.

  Nearly an hour passed before the light began to fade. As it dissipated, Lirael stared at his hands in disbelief. The transparency had vanished, replaced by normal elven skin. He flexed his fingers, then rotated his shoulders with fluid ease.

  "It's gone," he said simply.

  Elaine stepped back, her face revealing nothing despite having expended more energy than any healing had required since her arrival in this world. "The condition is reversed."

  Thaelen touched his son's shoulder, the gesture conveying centuries of concern. "In four hundred years," he said quietly, "I've never witnessed anything like this."

  Riona said, stepping forward and acknowledging him with a respectful nod of recognition "Ambassador Thaelen, I didn't expect to find you in our capital."

  The elf turned, surprise briefly crossing his features. "Councilor Riona. Your position has advanced since we last met at King Harren's coronation."

  Riona bowed slightly. "This explains the reports of unusual visitors at the healing house."

  Lirael stood, testing his restored strength. "You're the king's advisor?"

  "One of them," Riona replied, studying him with open curiosity. "And you appear to be the reason for the ambassador's unexpected visit."

  "My son," Thaelen confirmed. "Whose life has just been returned to him when all our healers declared his condition irreversible."

  Lirael looked at Elaine with careful assessment. "No human healer should be capable of this," he said. "Not even our most ancient practitioners, with centuries of experience, could reverse the Fading."

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  "I am a healer," Elaine replied. "Nothing more."

  "A healer unlike any our records mention," Thaelen said. "This changes much."

  "What changes?" Riona asked.

  "Thousands of our people suffer from variations of the Fading Sickness," Thaelen explained. "For millennia, we've accepted it as inevitable, managing decline rather than seeking cure."

  "Others would seek healing," Elaine stated.

  "They would. Though our people rarely cross borders into human lands."

  "Perhaps this warrants formal discussion," Riona suggested. "The King would welcome meeting with you while you're in the capital."

  Thaelen considered this with measured thoughtfulness. "I rarely involve myself in human affairs. Your kingdom, while significant among your kind, has been of limited interest to our councils." He glanced at his son. "No offense intended, Councilor. We measure history differently."

  "And yet you came personally for this," Riona observed.

  "For my son, yes." He looked at Lirael, standing straight and whole. "And now, given what I've witnessed... your king's invitation merits consideration."

  "Tomorrow, perhaps?" Riona suggested.

  Thaelen nodded. "First I must ensure Lirael's condition remains stable. But yes, a conversation seems appropriate."

  "Your healing house has accomplished what I believed impossible," he told Elaine. "That alone changes many assumptions."

  "Any who seek healing would be treated," Elaine said simply.

  "I should mention something else," Thaelen said, his tone shifting. "Our forests border both your kingdom and Vestria to the north. We've observed concerning developments along your shared border these past months."

  Riona's attention sharpened. "What kinds of developments?"

  "Vestrian military preparations beyond normal requirements," Thaelen replied. "Troop movements, new fortifications, supply stockpiling. Their patrols have doubled since spring."

  Elaine remained silent, her focus on the healing just performed, not the politics of neighboring kingdoms.

  "Aldoria should do more than monitor," Thaelen advised Riona. "Vestria has been planning something significant. Their council of generals meets with unprecedented frequency."

  Lirael placed his hand over his heart in formal gesture. "Regardless of political concerns, know that House Thaelen stands as your ally. Our gratitude extends beyond words or gestures."

  As they prepared to leave, Thaelen produced a small wooden box. "A token of our appreciation," he said, offering it to Elaine. "This belonged to my ancestor, Elanorae, one of our most renowned healers. As her direct descendant, its stewardship falls to me, allowing me to gift it. It carries her mark." He paused, letting the significance settle. "Her mark is still recognized among our people."

  Elaine accepted the box with a slight nod. Inside lay a small medallion of silver metal unknown to human smiths, engraved with intricate, ancient elven symbols representing life and restoration.

  "We will meet again," Thaelen said. "What you've done today ensures it."

  After they departed, Riona turned to Elaine. "The Elven Ambassador himself, in your healing house. Do you understand what just happened?"

  "I healed a condition they considered incurable," Elaine replied.

  "You've opened a door between our peoples that has been closed for generations," Riona said. "And his warning about Vestria confirms what our scouts have reported." She studied Elaine with concern. "That healing was different. I've never seen you exert such effort before."

  Elaine gave no direct answer, merely examining the medallion from the box. The healing had indeed required more of her than any previous treatment—not enough to truly deplete her, but sufficient to be noticeable.

  "I should inform the King immediately about Thaelen's presence—and his warning," Riona said. "Will you continue your regular healing schedule?"

  "Yes," Elaine replied. Her focus remained on the work ahead rather than the diplomatic implications or the subtle strain of the morning's events.

  As Riona departed, Elaine considered what the elven healing represented. The Fading Sickness had posed a unique challenge—one that might bring many more elven visitors seeking the same cure. While political matters between kingdoms held little interest for her, the opportunity to heal previously incurable conditions aligned perfectly with her purpose in establishing this house. The medallion felt cool and unfamiliar in her hand.

  * * *

  The late summer heat pressed down on the capital, making the cool stone interior of the Healing House a welcome refuge. Elaine was reviewing patient follow-up notes kept meticulously by Marta's team when a volunteer interrupted quietly.

  "Healer Elaine, a Priestess Anya requests an audience. She says she represents the city's primary Temple."

  Elaine nodded. "Show her to the consultation room."

  She found the priestess waiting, standing near the room's narrow window overlooking the now-shaded medicinal garden. Anya wore the simple, unadorned grey robes common to the clergy, but her usual air of quiet scholarship was replaced by a palpable intensity. There was a light in her eyes, a focused reverence that went beyond simple respect.

  "Healer Elaine," Anya greeted as Elaine entered, her bow deeper and more deliberate than mere formality required. "Thank you for granting me this time. The Council of Elders has tasked me with speaking to you, though my own heart has urged this meeting as well."

  "Priestess Anya," Elaine acknowledged, gesturing towards a chair. "What matter requires discussion?"

  Anya took the seat but perched on its edge, her hands clasped tightly. "It concerns the... response your work inspires, Healer. The veneration. Specifically, the title the people increasingly use."

  "‘Mother’," Elaine stated.

  Anya nodded, a complex mix of awe and worry crossing her features. "Yes. Perhaps you do not fully grasp its weight? Our faith centres on the Blessed Mother – the embodiment of healing mercy and protective strength. She mends, yes, but the ancient texts also depict her smiting those who bring profound harm, acting decisively when lesser measures fail."

  Elaine listened, recognizing the familiar duality.

  "The people," Anya continued, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more earnest, "they see your works. Ending the plague where all others failed. The... decisive action against Lord Varren's destructive forces. And now, the whispers grow louder about the incurable elven Fading Sickness being reversed within these walls." She met Elaine’s gaze, her eyes shining. "Healer Elaine, these are not mere acts of skilled healing. They mirror the very deeds described in the most sacred, often overlooked, prophecies."

  "Prophecies?" Elaine prompted neutrally.

  "Ancient texts speak of a time of great suffering – plague, war, despair – when the Mother might manifest among mortals again," Anya explained, leaning forward slightly. "Not in divine glory, but in humble guise. She would perform healings beyond comprehension, offer protection where none seemed possible, and significantly," Anya paused, emphasizing the next words, "she would not claim her divinity, deflecting worship while continuing her works."

  "I have made no claims, Priestess," Elaine stated calmly. "I am a healer."

  "Precisely!" Anya’s response was barely restrained excitement mixed with reverence. "As the prophecies foretold! Your humility, your focus solely on the act of healing... it fulfills the signs!" She caught herself, visibly trying to regain priestly composure. "Forgive me. My personal convictions perhaps outpace my official mandate."

  "Which is?" Elaine asked.

  Anya took a deep breath. "The Temple is… deeply divided. Many Elders fear this burgeoning devotion is unsanctioned, potentially heretical. They worry about misleading the faithful, about the implications of worship directed towards an individual, however remarkable." Her voice dropped again. "But there is another faction, growing stronger, that sees the undeniable alignment. They look at the prophecies, at your deeds, at the spontaneous reverence of the people, and they ask… are we witnessing the fulfillment? Are we blind to the Mother walking among us because she does not fit our preconceived notions?"

  She looked imploringly at Elaine. "I confess, Healer, I find myself increasingly among the latter group. What you do… it feels like more than skill. It feels like grace made manifest."

  "What does the Temple – or your faction – wish of me?"

  "That is the impossible question," Anya admitted. "The Council remains deadlocked, paralyzed by fear of error. Those like myself… we watch, we pray, we search for clearer signs. We cannot ask you to declare what you consistently deny. Yet we feel a profound responsibility. If you are what the prophecies speak of…" She trailed off, shaking her head slightly.

  "I came today," she finally said, her voice regaining some formality, "to convey the depth of the situation. The devotion is real, it is growing, and it resonates with the oldest tenets of our faith. Whether you intend it or not, you have become a focal point of immense spiritual significance. This cannot be ignored, by the Temple or, respectfully, by you."

  "My work remains healing," Elaine repeated, the statement firm but not dismissive.

  Priestess Anya gave a slow, deliberate nod. "As it must be," she replied, her voice quiet but steady. She rose from her chair and performed a bow, deeper and more formal than protocol typically required. Turning towards the door, a barely audible breath escaped her lips: "Mother."

  She departed, leaving behind an atmosphere charged not just with institutional worry, but with the intensity of nascent belief, even from the Temple's own representative. Elaine stood by the window, looking out at the garden. The title "Mother" now carried not just the weight of popular reverence, but the complex burden of prophetic interpretation. The path ahead seemed increasingly complex, requiring navigation through waters far deeper than simple healing.

  * * *

  Autumn leaves scattered across the healing house courtyard as Marta entered Elaine's private office, ledger in hand. The organized chaos of the morning's treatments had settled into afternoon routine, leaving a rare moment of quiet.

  "Nine new elven visitors this week," Marta reported, setting the ledger on Elaine's desk. Her finger traced the neat column of names. "All with variations of the Fading Sickness. That makes twenty-three since Ambassador Thaelen's visit two months ago."

  Elaine nodded, unsurprised. Word had spread through elven communities with deliberate discretion—no public announcements or formal declarations, just quiet information passed between families affected by the condition.

  "They're remarkably consistent in their approach," Marta continued. "Always arriving in pairs or small groups, always hooded until they reach the private chamber, always with the same formal gratitude afterward." She hesitated. "And all of them leave you noticeably tired."

  Elaine didn't contradict this observation. Each case of the Fading Sickness required the same intensive effort she'd expended with Lirael, the healing light shifting to amber as it encountered the unique resistance of this terrible disease. While no single treatment truly strained her capabilities, the cumulative effect of multiple such healings in a single day had become noticeable to those who worked closely with her.

  "They wait patiently," Elaine replied. "I can attend to them between other cases."

  "That's not the concern." Marta's practical nature asserted itself. "We're seeing a pattern. Ambassador Thaelen suggested thousands suffer from this condition. If too many at once seek treatment here..."

  She left the implication hanging. Even Elaine's extraordinary capabilities had limits—not in power, but in time and attention.

  "We'll manage," Elaine said simply.

  The door opened as one of the newer volunteers entered with a small wooden box. "Another gift from today's elven visitors," she explained, setting it carefully on the desk. "They insisted you receive it personally."

  The box contained a delicate silver bracelet of unmistakably elven craftsmanship, adorned with pale blue stones unknown in human markets. A note accompanied it, written in flowing script on paper so fine it seemed almost translucent: For the return of my daughter's strength. House Ilrieth stands with the Healer of Aldoria.

  Marta studied the bracelet without touching it. "The gifts grow more valuable with each visit. The elven woman you treated last week left that carved crystal figure that glows at night."

  "They give what holds meaning to them," Elaine observed, closing the box.

  "They also talk," Marta noted. "Not just about their healing, but about events beyond our borders. The most recent group mentioned unusual movement along the northern roads—Vestrian patrols stopping travelers, questioning them about Aldorian military positions."

  Elaine set the box aside. Such political concerns remained peripheral to her purpose, though she noted the information as potentially useful to Riona.

  "One more thing," Marta added, her tone shifting. "The elven man you treated this morning—the one with the advanced case? He mentioned he'd traveled for nearly a month to reach us, crossing through difficult terrain to avoid Vestrian checkpoints. He said others are preparing similar journeys."

  "How many?" Elaine asked.

  "Hundreds, according to him. Word of successful healings has reached even their most isolated communities." Marta's practical mind calculated implications. "If they continue arriving at increasing rates..."

  "We will treat them as they come," Elaine stated, her decision unchanged despite the logistical challenges ahead.

  Marta nodded, recognizing the finality in Elaine's tone.

  After Marta departed, Elaine remained at her desk, considering the bracelet and its message. House Ilrieth stands with the Healer of Aldoria. Similar pledges had accompanied each elven gift—formal statements of alliance or support from houses whose political significance she couldn't assess. The gestures reminded her of Thaelen's parting words: What you've done today ensures we will meet again.

  Outside her window, three hooded figures entered the courtyard—their height and movement immediately identifying them as elven visitors. More seeking treatment for the Fading Sickness, more intensive healing that would require her focused attention, more grateful families offering gifts and pledges she hadn't sought.

  Elaine rose to meet them, setting aside concerns about increasing numbers or political implications. Each represented a life she could restore—and that remained her singular purpose, regardless of what complications might follow.

  * * *

  Davian walked beside Riona through the capital's northern gardens, autumn colors painting the trees in brilliant reds and golds. Their path deliberately avoided both the palace and more populated areas, affording a rare privacy that neither could find in their respective domains. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves.

  "Your guards follow at a discreet distance," he noted, his gaze briefly flicking towards the two royal sentries maintaining positions near the garden entrance. "Is that standard now?"

  "A precaution the King insists upon for Council members," Riona replied, waving a hand dismissively as if it were a minor annoyance. "Ignore them. They're good at fading into the scenery."

  They continued in comfortable silence for a time, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. Months had passed since their first meeting, marked by shared meals, quiet conversations tucked into busy schedules, and a growing mutual respect that had subtly deepened into something more personal.

  "When do you leave?" Riona asked finally, her voice softer than usual, the question hanging in the cool air.

  "Tomorrow at dawn," Davian answered. "The northern route is still passable, but..." He hesitated, then gestured toward a secluded stone bench overlooking a still pond covered with fallen maple leaves. "Shall we sit for a moment?"

  The bench felt cool beneath them, the location offering quiet seclusion. Courtiers rarely ventured this far from the palace.

  "But?" Riona prompted gently, sensing his hesitation.

  "But the atmosphere has changed up there," Davian admitted, leaning forward slightly. "My contacts near the Vestrian border – they report significant changes since summer. It's not just the tariffs and delays I mentioned before. Vestrian border patrols are doubled, maybe tripled. They're stopping all southbound traffic, demanding manifests for everything, asking questions about Aldorian troop positions."

  "Wartime footing, disguised as border control," Riona murmured, recognizing the pattern.

  "Precisely," Davian confirmed. "And they're building. New watchtowers, reinforced checkpoints – not just maintaining the border, but hardening it. Supplies – food, timber, metal – are being moved north towards those positions, not distributed locally. The merchants I know in their border towns are worried. They speak of grain requisitions by the Vestrian army, something Baron Volkov hasn't ordered in years."

  He picked up a fallen maple leaf, turning its vibrant red spokes in his fingers. "It feels different this time, Riona. Not the usual political games or trade disputes. It feels like preparation."

  Riona listened intently, his firsthand account adding texture and immediacy to the fragmented intelligence reports she reviewed daily. "The Council remains divided. Some see Volkov flexing his muscles while the King's attention is south. Others fear it's more."

  "It is more," Davian stated with quiet certainty. "I've traveled that route for twenty years. I know the rhythm of the borderlands. This isn't posturing."

  They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between them. The peace of the autumn garden felt suddenly fragile.

  "My caravan is well-guarded," Davian continued, perhaps sensing her concern.

  Riona nodded. "How long will you be gone?"

  "Three weeks in the border provinces, assuming no significant delays," he replied. "Then another two inland to secure the timber contracts." He met her gaze. "Five weeks total, if all goes well."

  The unspoken 'if' lingered.

  "I have faced uncertain journeys before," Davian said, the leaf forgotten in his hand. "Bandits, storms, political upheavals... it's the nature of the trade." He looked away towards the pond. "But I find myself... reluctant to leave this time."

  The admission, simple and direct, resonated more deeply than any grand declaration. Riona watched a breath of wind ripple the water's surface, scattering the reflected image of the golden trees.

  "The capital will be... awaiting news of your safe return," she replied, choosing her words carefully, maintaining a careful distance even as she acknowledged the sentiment.

  Davian turned back, a faint, understanding smile touching his lips. He knew the constraints of her position, the careful lines she had to walk. "And I will ensure news arrives."

  He stood, offering her a hand. "I should return to my final preparations. Dawn comes early."

  Riona accepted his hand, rising to stand beside him. They resumed their walk towards the garden exit, the earlier ease replaced by the quiet tension of impending separation and uncertain futures.

  "The Crown values the information provided by merchants like yourself," she said, resuming a more formal tone as they neared the waiting guards. "Your observations are noted."

  "My trading house has always maintained open communication," Davian replied with equal formality. "It benefits all parties."

  At the garden gate, where their paths diverged – his towards the merchant district, hers towards the palace – they paused.

  "Safe journey, Merchant Davian," Riona said, the traditional farewell carrying more weight than usual.

  "Councilor," Davian inclined his head. He held her gaze for a moment longer, a wealth of unspoken feeling passing between them. "Until my return."

  He turned and walked away, merging into the flow of city life. Riona watched him go, the image of the determined merchant heading towards an increasingly hostile border settling uneasily in her mind. The crisp autumn air suddenly felt colder.