Creshers

Estaria lay awake long after the light shifted behind the shutters, the bakery quiet around him. He’d had time to think—two days of silence, routine, and wandering thoughts that never quite landed. Leona had her secrets. The sigil still pulled at him. And Streacresh—he didn’t know what it was. A god? A title? A myth?

All he had was a name, a curl in the stonework, and a gnawing sense that it mattered. That following it meant something.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t even know what questions to ask, let alone how to chase the answers.

But he’d come this far. And there was only one way forward.

Maybe they don’t have answers, but…

The moment the thought surfaced, though, he knew it wasn’t right.

They had answers. The real question was whether he could get to them.

Well—he wasn’t going to get them lying on this cot.

He sat up and reached for his pack.

He was tightening the last buckle when he heard a soft sound.

He stopped mid-motion. The sound could’ve been flour hitting stone—except it wasn’t coming from the bakery.

Curious, he crossed the bakery floor and unlatched the door.

Snow.

It fell in slow spirals, already dusting the street outside. Pale against the cobblestones, quiet as breath. Still falling. Still building.

Leona stepped up beside him. Her hand brushed his arm—not for warmth, not quite, but for steadiness.

Estaria stared at the street, wide-eyed. “It’s barely autumn, right?”

“Yeah,” she said softly—like it was the only word she could manage.

Across the street, a shopkeeper emerged and stood blinking in the cold light. Another joined her a moment later, mouth parted. No one spoke. They just stared, like they’d never seen snow before.

For a moment, he and Leona stood like that. Watching. Waiting.

And then, unbidden, a memory rose.

The first snow he and Angel had shared. He’d been nervous about something—her father, maybe, or one of her impossible schemes. The details blurred, but he remembered the cold, and how it kept him on the threshold.

Angel hadn’t hesitated. She’d grabbed his hand and pulled him outside, laughing like the world couldn’t touch her. “Come on,” she’d said. “It’s just snow.”

Just snow.

He drew a slow breath, deep enough it almost steadied him.

“Shall we go meet your husband?” he asked, voice dry.

Leona gave a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh.

Then he stepped forward, leading her into the cold.

⁂

The wagons stretched down the road like a spine of moving ribs—oxen shifting, canvas rippling, boots thudding against packed earth. Leona walked ahead of Estaria, her expression unreadable.

She slowed as they approached a bend in the supply train.

“Come on,” she said, not quite looking at him. “I need to clear something up with the caravan master before I introduce you to my husband.”

They rounded a stack of crates, and the caravan master looked up from his ledger.

He took one look at Estaria and said flatly,

“I said we’re not taking strays.”

“I know. I heard you.” Leona didn’t miss a step—just pulled a folded sheet from her coat and flipped it open.

“I need to make sure we’ve got enough barley if I’m going to bake the barley apple loaves.”

The master grunted and checked his board. “We’ve got enough.”

Leona turned another page, her voice light.

“I hope we don’t have too many apples this time. They went bad last time. The recipe doesn’t need a lot.”

The master looked at his board. Then at Estaria. Then back to Leona.

“I’ll pull what’s overripe before it turns.”

Leona nodded, that supply detail sorted, and turned toward the wagons.

“Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “There’s someone you should meet.”

Estaria followed Leona through the maze of wagons, his newly dyed hair still feeling foreign against his neck. The morning frost crunched under his boots as they wove between stacks of crates and barrels. His breath frosted in the air, mixing with the wood smoke from nearby campfires.

A repetitive scraping sound drew his attention to a wagon ahead. A broad-shouldered man knelt beside one of the wheels, working a file against the metal rim with practiced strokes. Wood shavings littered the ground around his feet, and a collection of well-worn tools lay spread on a leather mat beside him.

The man’s weathered hands paused their work as Leona approached. He set the file down and stood, wiping his palms on his leather apron. Deep laugh lines creased around his eyes as Leona reached up to kiss his cheek.

“Husband, I’d like to introduce you to Estaria.”

The morning sun caught the silver threading through the man’s dark beard. His eyes, a deep brown that reminded Estaria of freshly tilled earth, studied him with quiet intensity. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable before the man spoke.

“Name’s Orin.” His voice was as rough as his calloused hands, but not unkind. “You the one my wife said might tag along?”

Estaria shifted his weight, acutely aware of how exposed they were between the wagons. The early morning bustle of the caravan continued around them – porters hauling goods, traders checking inventories, kitchen staff preparing breakfast. Each passing figure made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“Yes, sir,” Estaria replied, keeping his voice low. The cold air nipped at his face as he fought the urge to look over his shoulder.

Orin picked up his file again, testing the edge with his thumb. “Know anything about wagon maintenance?”

“Some,” Estaria said. ""Helped maintain the carts back… back in Appledale.”

Orin nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Good. Always need extra hands keeping these wheels turning.” He gestured to the wagon he’d been working on. “Hub’s wearing unevenly. Mind holding the lantern while I show you what to look for?”

Estaria glanced at Leona, who gave him an encouraging nod. “I’ll catch up with you this evening.” She reached out and touched his arm, before turning toward the front of the caravan. Estaria just caught Orin’s irritated look, before he turned back toward the wheel setting.

“See here?” Orin pointed to where the wheel met the axle. “When it starts to wear like this, you’ve got to catch it early. Otherwise…” He continued his explanation, his gruff voice taking on a teacher’s patience as he detailed the signs of wear and proper maintenance techniques.

The technical discussion helped settle Estaria’s nerves. This was something real, something practical he could focus on instead of the constant worry about being recognized or followed. His shoulders gradually relaxed as Orin walked him through the basics of wheel maintenance.

“Think you can handle that?” Orin asked when he finished his explanation.

“Yes, sir,” Estaria said, and meant it. The work would be physical, but straightforward. Something to occupy his hands and mind.

“Good.” Orin gathered his tools, wrapping them in the leather mat with practiced efficiency. “We move out in an hour. I’ll need help checking the rest of the wagons once we make camp tonight.” He paused, fixing Estaria with a steady look. “And drop the ‘sir.’ Orin is fine.”

Estaria nodded. “Orin.”

A cook’s bell rang somewhere in the caravan, its clear tone cutting through the morning air. Marcus straightened, his knees cracking slightly.

“Better get some breakfast while you can,” he said, tucking his tool roll under one arm. “Long day ahead.”

⁂

The fire hadn’t been lit yet when Estaria stepped away from the wagons. Orin had mentioned the food stores—“Ask Keely if she needs anything hauled”—so he wandered toward the kitchen tent, looking for a task. The caravan had settled into their evening routine, and he was still finding his place in it all.

A warm scent met him first—rosemary, onion, and something sweet that reminded him faintly of his mother’s cooking in his youth. A slender young woman, just tall enough to peer over the bubbling pot…, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, flour streaking her cheek like a badge of pride. She moved with confident ease, humming softly, a paring knife in one hand and a ladle in the other, orchestrating her domain with practiced movements.

Estaria took one look at her and thought: Never trust a thin innkeeper… or cook, in this case. The old saying from home brought a fleeting smile to his lips.

“Hey,” he said, shifting his weight. “Do you need apples?”

She looked up, eyes bright and assessing. “Always. They never send enough. Which—okay, fair, they go bad quick. But still. Some of us like flavor.” There was a practiced grumble in her tone—more theater than complaint.

She nudged open a crate with her foot, revealing a sparse collection of bruised fruit. “See? Barely enough for one proper tart. Criminal, really.”

When he didn’t move, she tossed him a potato instead. It landed in his palms with a solid thump.

“You’re Estaria, right?” she asked, already reaching for another knife, her movements never pausing. The name sounded different in her mouth—casual, unburdened.

“Yeah.” He turned the potato over in his hands, feeling its earthy weight.

“Well, Estaria, you’re in luck. Everyone peels potatoes before they’re trusted with anything else. Caravan law.” She grinned, teeth flashing white against her sun-browned face. “I’m Keely, by the way. Welcome to the proving grounds.”

He knelt beside her and got to work. His technique was a little rusty, but his hands found the rhythm quickly enough. Ribbons of skin curled into the dust at his feet. Keely worked with cheerful precision, stirring, seasoning, slicing, the steam from her pot rising to dampen her forehead.

“You’re faster than you look,” she said after a bit, eyeing his growing pile of peeled potatoes.

“Thanks,” he muttered, unsure if it was a compliment.

She rose, gathering the peeled potatoes in her apron. “This’ll help. Might actually get everyone fed before midnight.”

As he stood to leave, brushing dirt from his knees, she added, “Streacresh bless your travels,” light as breath, the words falling naturally from her lips.

Estaria hesitated, the name striking something deep within him. “Streacresh,” he echoed. “That’s… what, a god?”

“Sort of.” Keely shrugged, turning back to her pot. “Old spirit, maybe. Everyone says it a little differently. You say the name when you mean it. Safety on the road. Blessings for the next mile.”

He nodded slowly, tucking the words away like something precious. The name felt strangely familiar on his tongue.

“Why?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “First time hearing it?”

“No. I’ve seen it carved into stone.” The memory of those markings flickered through his mind, symbols he’d traced with his fingertips without understanding.

She raised her brows. “Ooh, dramatic. Well, if the road brought you here, you must’ve done something right.”

Then she turned back to her bubbling pot, already humming again, dismissing him from her temporary kingdom.

Estaria walked away, the scent of rotting apples fading behind him. The name still echoed in his chest, soft, unfamiliar … yet somehow calling to him. Behind him, Keely laughed at something someone said. Bright. Ordinary. The sound faded as he moved toward the gathering darkness beyond the tents.

⁂

Leona caught up with him before he reached the fire.

“Hey Estaria, over here.”

He looked around, seeing Leona waving him over. She was standing next to a lithe man, who was looking at what appeared to be a map. Estaria had never had much luck figuring out how maps worked, and the tools the lithe man used on the paper were confusing.

“Estaria, meet Silas. Silas, meet Estaria.”

Silas was bent over a map, adjusting one of several thin brass instruments. Estaria didn’t know what they were for—only that they looked precise, important, and a little dangerous. He looked up straight at Estaria’s hair. He seemed satisfied at whatever he saw there. His gaze shifted to Estaria’s face and stayed there—longer than expected. Long enough that Estaria began to wonder if he was supposed to speak. But just as the moment stretched toward discomfort, Silas gave a single, deliberate nod. Then turned back to the map without a word.

Estaria opened his mouth, and closed it again without saying anything. Everyone else had been so nice. Almost disgustingly nice. This standoffish behavior threw him for a loop.

Leona leaned in “Don’t worry, he’s actually a good guy. He’s the caravan’s scout. People aren’t his strong suit.” She motioned for Estaria to follow her, and as Estaria walked away, he looked over his shoulder at Silas.

“So have you had a chance to meet everyone?”

“Mostly, Keely is fun.”

“She is, though, isn’t she! Your tent is over there,” She motioned to a smallish tent that was definitely not big enough for 2 people. “We set it up for you today, but you’ll have to do that on your own from now on. We camp early afternoon, and set out an hour after sunrise. Feel free to get whatever food is around. Any questions”

Estaria just nodded.

“Ok. Well, sleep well.” She flashed him a disarming smile, and turned back toward her and Orin’s tent, which was big enough for 3 or 4 people. They must have been here for a long time.

⁂

Now, hunched by the fire, Estaria picked at a splinter on the edge of the log, his thoughts circling. The wood splintered further beneath his restless fingers, tiny fragments catching under his nails.

It wasn’t just Silas.

The cook had known his name before he introduced himself, greeting him with that casual familiarity that couldn’t be faked. One of the porters had nodded at him in passing—not the kind of nod you gave a stranger, but the acknowledgment you offered someone whose face you already recognized. A woman he didn’t recognize had handed him a bundle of cloth earlier and said, “For your bunk,” her tone matter-of-fact, as if his presence had been anticipated for days.

No hesitation. No question. Just: your bunk. As if his place had been reserved, waiting.

And then Silas. That look. That silence. That moment of recognition that had flashed across his face before being carefully masked.

Estaria’s stomach turned, low and slow, a cold weight settling in his gut like a stone.

They all knew who he was. Not just that he was there, but who. Why he was here. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the full story. But enough.

Enough to recognize him. Enough to expect him. Enough to make his skin crawl with the sensation of being watched, studied, anticipated.

He rubbed his wrist again, thumb running a slow circle over skin that felt too tight. His dyed hair itched at the base of his neck, a constant reminder of his disguise.

Had Leona introduced him behind the scenes? Whispered warnings about the newcomer joining their caravan? Had she warned them? Prepared them for his arrival like he was some dangerous animal that needed special handling?

“No,” he muttered, scanning the camp. Over a hundred people in this caravan. There’s No chance she had time to tell them all.

Had someone else? Someone he hadn’t even met yet?

This isn’t how people treat strangers. There should’ve been questions. Suspicion. The natural wariness travelers show to newcomers on the road.

But no one acted afraid of him. No one acted surprised. And that was the problem. It suggested a plan in motion, wheels turning that he couldn’t see, paths laid out before him by unseen hands. Angel would have noticed it immediately, would have pulled him aside with that quiet concern in her eyes.

The thought of her made his fingers unconsciously reach for the dagger, but he stopped himself. “I can’t afford that right now. I have to keep my full focus on what’s happening.”