(Strange.) Stellan sat cross-legged by the tree trunk, his eyes closed in feigned meditation. (What are they planning?)

  "Spotted something intriguing?" Lannord approached with an easy smile, balancing two cups in his hands. "You look like you just ate something nasty."

  "Possibly worse." Stellan accepted the cup, taking several deep draughts of Crimson Sunset. "Their reinforcements have nearly all arrived. The latest officer brought close to twenty thousand men."

  "They've always maintained numerical superiority; hardly cause for alarm." Lannord settled beside him, savoring his own wine. "What else has darkened your countenance?"

  Stellan drained his glass in one swift motion. "They've dispatched messengers to carry critical documents back to Crividsylvan."

  "Goblins?"

  "Humans."

  "Even so, no reason for concern." Lannord slid down the tree trunk until he lay flat upon the ground. "Unless... you didn't glimpse the contents of these missives?"

  His companion shook his head. "It's the composition of their party that troubles me."

  "Elaborate."

  "Three humans," Stellan said, studying Lannord's relaxed posture. "Two heavily armed—ostensibly guarding the third messenger, yet they themselves also carry dispatches. But what truly confounds me is..."

  Lannord waited, offering no prompting.

  "A massive hunting falcon accompanies them, Lannord." Stellan's eyes began to glow crimson. "I cannot fathom its purpose, but it bears documents and its size is... brother, it's unnaturally enormous."

  Kendrick Mackenzie sat astride his horse, mind adrift in distant thoughts. "Are you even listening to me?"

  He wasn't. "What did you say? Repeat yourself, lad."

  "Looking to start something, old man?" Raymond Noytra's face contorted with displeasure. "Swagger all you want—you're still just a glorified mailman."

  "For thirty-seven years and counting," the veteran added dryly.

  "Such distinction," Raymond sneered with mock admiration. "A goblin could deliver letters for a century and still not match your self-importance."

  "Conserve your energy, boy." Old Mackenzie didn't deign to look at him, having no intention of engaging further. "Emulate your companion. He possesses what you sorely lack—composure and discretion."

  Ivan Northes was indeed the picture of silence. Fully armed, he wore an ill-fitting hood pulled low over his features. "Ah, I'd nearly forgotten this one existed," Raymond goaded, maneuvering his mount closer. "Father Northes, what phantoms haunt you today?"

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  "You haunt me—your stench is appalling," Ivan replied, wordlessly widening the gap between them, prompting a raucous laugh from Raymond. "Silence, you fool!" Mackenzie barked. "Would you have your braying summon every predator in these woods?"

  "What danger could possibly lurk here?" Raymond scoffed. "We may be entering the forest, but this remains firmly our territory. I fail to comprehend your needless caution." He spat contemptuously at a squirrel perched on a nearby branch, sending it scurrying away.

  "Do they always address you thus, Ivan?" the old man inquired softly. "I've grown accustomed to it," Ivan responded, adjusting the quiver strapped across his back. "He relishes the paternal role." Their hushed exchange reached Raymond's keen ears, and he couldn't resist interjecting. "He seizes every opportunity for excessive concern. Waking you at dawn, insisting on morning drills, then interrupting practice to demand rest, even dictating your bathing schedule. Hells, he surpasses even my mother's nagging."

  "You acquit yourself admirably, Ivan," Mackenzie observed. "These two would indeed benefit from frequent bathing. They reek worse than swine."

  The forest canopy grew increasingly dense, forming a second firmament that permitted only occasional silver shafts of moonlight to penetrate. The trio proceeded at a measured pace, occasionally disturbing birds that hastily departed, unwilling to linger in the presence of the far larger and more formidable avian that soared above them.

  "You mentioned serving as a courier for thirty-seven years. Where have your duties primarily taken you?" Ivan attempted casual conversation to ease the tension.

  "Countless places, boy," the old man replied, his vigilant gaze ceaselessly scanning their surroundings. "Royal couriers serve wherever the crown dictates—the entire realm becomes our workplace."

  "What's the greatest distance you've covered in a single journey?" Raymond inquired.

  "From Porivies to Kretonia."

  "That spans nearly the entire empire!" Ivan exclaimed.

  Mackenzie nodded. "A red-sealed dispatch—royal correspondence for Kretonia's governor. I happened to be in the vicinity, so the assignment fell to me. I'd intended to depart Kretonia forthwith, but my insufferable wife insisted I procure cosmetics for her. What do I know of such frivolities? In the end, I returned empty-handed and exhausted three horses in the process."

  "How long did the journey require?"

  "Nearly five months," the old man sighed heavily. "Labor strikes plagued every region, even among the trolls. A new edict mandated that trolls pay the Humanoid Species Tax. Absolute nonsense, in my estimation. How do trolls remotely resemble humans? Beyond their barely intelligible speech, I perceive no similarities whatsoever. Every bridge stood barricaded, forcing reliance on ferries for river crossings."

  "The ferrymen didn't participate in these strikes?"

  "Quite the contrary—they were jubilant," Mackenzie snorted. "With bridges closed, passengers flocked to their vessels. Everyone from nursing infants to decrepit old men with twisted legs stood ready with poles, soliciting fares. They demanded fifty glens from me—doubled when my horse was included. Damnable extortion! In ordinary times, twenty glens would find no takers, yet suddenly they gouged with impunity. I had no choice but to reveal my status as a royal courier."

  "With what result?" Raymond asked, genuinely intrigued.

  "The price doubled again."

  Raymond couldn't suppress his laughter, though notably subdued from before. "The entire purpose of those absurd regulations was to benefit humans exclusively—hence their implementation. The situation escalated until troll guilds categorically refused to relinquish their title as 'Bridge Guardians' to human control. Eventually, compromise became inevitable."

  "The trolls retained their guardian status and continued collecting tolls, but surrendered a percentage of their earnings to human authorities—the Godma Labor Act of 462," Ivan added with scholarly precision.

  "Thank providence all expenses were reimbursable; otherwise, I might have joined the trolls in their protest. I'm impressed by your historical knowledge," Mackenzie remarked with genuine appreciation.