Late morning.
The Silver River Hub was already active—crates moving, workers calling, wagons rolling in steady rhythm. But something shifted before anyone announced it.
A line of riders appeared on the northern road.
Not merchants. Not convoys. Uniform spacing. Polished tack. Dark cloaks with silver trim that caught the sunlight in controlled flashes. Behind them: two enclosed carriages. Heavy. Sealed. Marked with the Crown's insignia—a stylized bridge and crown, stamped into the wood of each door.
Workers noticed first. Movement slowed at the loading bays. Conversations quieted mid-sentence. A crate dropped somewhere—too loud in the sudden hush.
By the time the riders reached the hub entrance, everyone was watching.
Zack stood near the intake gate, arms crossed, jaw set. Already annoyed.
