Two months after the lockdown was lifted, Greystone breathed like a living thing again.
The roads were open. Wagons creaked along the hills. The sound of trade returned—a steady hum that felt almost like music. Children ran ahead of carts, chasing the first travelers brave enough to come this far north.
The world hadn't gone back to what it was, but it was moving forward.
Tristan sat at the table inside the waystation office, writing figures into a fresh ledger. The old one had been retired, its pages stiff with vinegar stains and ration marks. He still kept it in a drawer—a record of survival, not business.
Outside the window, Shannon was helping unload a wagon from the southern road. He moved easily, lifting sacks of grain as if they weighed nothing. His sleeves were rolled up, his copper band glinting in the sun.
A few of the younger workers whispered to each other, amused at how the Alpha now did chores without complaint.
When Shannon noticed them staring, he only grinned.
