They moved out before the light fully settled, heading north, the ground still uneven under layers of piled snow that had not yet frozen solid, every step deliberate as boots sank and lifted again in a slow, steady rhythm.
Five miles was not far. Not for them. Not with purpose.
The mule walked ahead of Iyisha, its breath puffing white, ears flicking back and forth as it pulled the low sled behind it, the runners hissing softly over packed snow and shallow drifts, the load balanced with care. Crates. Tools. Wrapped supplies. Nothing rattled. Nothing swung loose.
Watching it move, Iyisha understood why Malcolm had agreed to this setup. The mule did not rush. It tested the ground with each step, shifting its weight when snow gave way, choosing firmness instinctively, steady where a horse would have panicked or slipped.
Good choice, she thought. Slow. Quiet. Reliable.
