The Watcher approached the broken outer road with Ash beside her and identified the stranded wagon before issuing a command.
Frost clung to the stunted shrubs lining the ditch, melting into silver beads under the pale glow of the morning.
The Watcher stood at the bend of the gravel road, her dark woolen cloak drawn closely around her shoulders.
Beside her, young Ash adjusted his leather belt, his clear eyes watching the mist with quiet, focused attention.
"Listen to the ground beneath your feet, little one," she instructed softly, gesturing toward the shaking pebbles.
"A machine is coming along the lower terrace... and it is not built to carry wheat flour."
The boy crouched down, pressing his palm against the damp earth to feel the subterranean vibrations.
"It feels uneven and heavy, like four iron pistons stomping through the mud," he observed with a keen frown.
