The road into town is rutted and dry, worn by cartwheels and hooves. Dust clings to everything—the hedges, the stone walls, even the air itself. Behind her, the river still turns the mill wheel as it always has, but here the sounds are different: traders calling, iron striking iron, the murmur of coin and barter.

The wagon creaks as she reins the horse to a stop beside the merchant’s stall. Sacks of grain shift with a dull, heavy rustle.

She hops down, brushing flour from her apron, and gives the nearest sack a testing grip. It doesn’t budge as easily as she’d like.

“...Right then.”

She braces, pulling harder this time, the weight dragging stubbornly against the wood.

“Gods, did father pack stones in this one...?”

The sack finally shifts an inch, then another. She exhales through her nose, adjusts her footing, and hauls again—slower, steadier—until it tips toward the edge.

“Easy… easy…”

With a final effort, she drags it down, catching it against her hip before it can spill.

“…There. That’ll do.”