The day smelled like wet straw and bread, the kind of ordinary scent that made Lira feel steadier than any speech or plan. It was the small things that kept her sane now: a child's grin over a stolen apple, the weight of a rope coiled correctly in her palm, the quiet scrape of a needle mending a torn sleeve.
She was at the smith's lean-to, learning to stitch leather under the patient eye of Old Mara, when a runner's shadow cut across the yard. The runner moved like someone who had been told to hurry but had been taught to carry himself with care. He slowed as he reached them and handed a sealed letter to Aric without a word.
Aric's face read paper like a map. He opened it with the same slow care as before—no unnecessary show—and read. The silence around him felt like people waiting for a bell to toll.
"What is it?" Lira asked, wiping her hands on her apron. The pebble in her pocket warmed at the sound of her voice like an answering heart.
Aric folded the paper and handed it to her. The seal was simple: a crown pressed over three hands, the same image they'd seen before. The script inside was polite and formal, but the words were plain.
The banner accepts your offer of a neutral meeting at the Old Mill at dusk. They request only that the meeting be attended by the representative you choose and two witnesses from the Council. They further request that the representative come unarmed as a sign of trust.
For a second the world narrowed to the line: come unarmed.
Lira felt something move under her ribs—less fear than a question. A trust asked for in that way could be a bridge or a snare. She looked up and saw the faces she had come to read like weather.
Kellan's jaw had tightened. He didn't need to say anything for his stance to tell her how he felt: unarmed meant vulnerable. Aric's eyes were flat with calculation. Darren's hand hovered over a scrap of paper as if to write the world into safety. Rook's mouth had a grin that didn't reach his eyes. Vale watched from the edge with the quiet of a man who counted people's breaths.
"You'll not go alone," Kellan said. The words were gentle in tone but unbending in will.
Lira met him, and there was no performance in her reply. "I won't. I asked for witnesses. I will attend. But I will not be led like a lamb to prove a point."
Aric stepped forward. "We will accept terms as they stand but with a condition," he said. "You will be unarmed in the sense of weapons—but you will have two witnesses as requested, one of whom may remain a short distance away and step in should the meeting go against the agreed protocols. The Council will observe, and we will have two mounted runners within voice and sight."
Darren scribbled the condition into a formal addendum. His careful hand calmed the room more than any argument. It was law's small safety: words that could be presented later as proof.
Vale finally moved. He crossed the yard and offered Lira a narrow strip of dark cloth. "This is not a weapon," he said, voice low. "It is a tie. The banner's request for unarmed meeting is likely symbolic. They want a picture that can be shown to clients and allies. But symbols can be used as cords. Keep your witnesses close in spirit and distance. Watch for small things. If someone keeps smiling too long, be wary. If someone avoids bread, note it."
Lira took the cloth. It felt ordinary and heavy with warning. She tied it around her wrist like a pact, more for the motion than for anything else.
"Will you come?" she asked, looking at each of them. "Not as shields, not as guard—come as witnesses. If they try anything, they will see us speak, and the pack will know."
They all answered without contest. Kellan's hand found hers and squeezed. "I will be present," he said. "Beside you, not over you."
Rook added with a half grin, "I will bring a hat that makes me look frightening and a bag of bad jokes to offend them into honesty."
Aric's face softened for a moment. "We'll be close enough to ride if anything goes wrong. That is an order."
The Council debated minor points—exact distance, whether Bren would be allowed as a passive witness, how many runners would stand watch—and then the pack prepared. Lira chose a simple dress for the meeting, something that would not be mistaken for peasant rags nor for a show of wealth. She braided her hair herself, short and quick, because hands that had once swept floors remembered tidy work.
Jorin found her wiping down the leather straps near the hearth and thrust a piece of sweetbread into her hand like a talisman. "For luck," he said solemnly.
She laughed and kissed his forehead. "For luck," she echoed.
As dusk leaned over the world and painted everything in a soft grey, they rode toward the Old Mill. The road hummed with the day's last work. The Old Mill itself sat on neutral ground—no banners, no stones that remembered this pack or that hold. It smelled of flour and damp wood. It was as ordinary as a place could be, which was why it suited this kind of difficult conversation.
Across the flat were a small circle of men and a tent without markings. Seris waited with a few of her envoys. The banner's messenger looked like someone who had been taught to keep their face neutral under all weather. The wind skutted across the grass, bringing with it the smell of horses and distant cooking.
They dismounted and made the slow approach. Lira felt the pebble heavy in her pocket and took it out for the first time since morning, rolling it between her fingers as if to steady the pulse.
Seris inclined her head. "Lady Lira," she said. "We are glad to meet in the middle."
Lira met her gaze. "We are glad to meet plainly."
The envoys arranged themselves as agreed. Kellan and Rook sat on the far edge of the lane, visible but not intrusive. Aric stood near enough to listen, Darren nearer with parchment rolled like an anchor. Vale remained folded into shadow, as if distance gave him better sight.
The banner's leader came forward then—a man wearing a plain, clean coat rather than the flash of banners. He carried the air of someone who had never needed to shout but had practiced the art of being heard. He smiled with the small, precise smile of a negotiator.
"We ask you to tell us plainly," he said. "Is the White Line a danger or a promise?"
Lira breathed. The words were blunt and the world was small for a moment: a girl, a pebble, a choice.
"I am a person," she said, hearing her own voice steady across the short grass. "I am not a tool. I will stand with my people and make decisions with them. If you come looking to buy fear, you will find only a price you cannot pay."
The leader's smile tightened but did not break. He nodded slowly. "Then you have courage and advantage in equal measure. The banner will report your words. We come with a question to our leaders: will you form a formal non-aggression and trade pact? We will offer protection against hunter bands for a yearly tithe. We make this offer in the name of stabilization."
Trade and protection and tithe—terms like these smelled better than ledgers but could bind just the same. Lira felt the cold slide across her like a breeze through reed.
"We will not be taxed for the privilege of existing," she said. "We will agree to trade, to pass goods, and to keep peace on the roads. But any tithe must be voluntary, and any protection must not come with strings that touch our bodies or our choices."
The leader considered as if tasting the words. "A reasonable position," he said at last. "I will note this to my masters. One more caution: there are factions that will move with speed. The treaty you name may be pleased by some and spurned by others. Expect maneuvers."
Vale's black mouth tightened into a small curve. "Then prepare for both handshake and blade," he said.
They rode home under a moon that looked, for once, like it had not yet decided what to do. Lira's hand curled around the pebble in the small dark of her palm. She had walked into the field with a letter that asked for her unarmed; she had left with her voice as armor.
She had not been alone. She had not been silent.
And as the pack's lights blinked in the distance, she let herself feel something that had nothing to do with war or bargains: the small, brittle relief of shared bread, the warmth of a hand squeezed in the dark, and the knowledge that she would choose her path—step by step, word by word—alongside people who would stand with her.