The air over the East Bend Swamp tasted of old copper and rotting vegetation. For as long as anyone in the valley could remember, this two-mile stretch of sunken geography had been a graveyard for commerce. The King's Highway technically ran through it, but the reality was a braided network of treacherous, semi-liquid paths that shifted with every heavy rain.
Half-submerged wagon frames protruded from the black muck like the ribs of starved animals. Broken axles, shattered yokes, and lengths of frayed hemp rope littered the reeds. A half-mile away, sitting on the only naturally elevated ridge of dry land, stood the wooden toll booth manned by Baron Harth's local guard. They did not maintain the road. They simply charged a premium for the right to drag a wagon through the mire, and charged double to pull out the ones that sank.
It was a system built entirely on the monetization of failure.
At dawn, Arthur arrived to break it.
