Cold light pooled along the stones. Fungal glow stroked each hoofprint until it looked wet. The menhirs fell behind like old teeth.
Han set the pace with two taps on the glass. The team matched his rhythm. Dust rose and settled on his count.
Five merchants kept near, their coaches bright as coins. Drivers traded soft curses and smiled when no one looked. Denver held the line while Han watched the road and the brush.
"Save your breath for hills," Han said through the window. "The forest takes payment in silence and in care. Anyone who pays with noise pays twice."
The bone coach drifted close. Its owner praised his maps and laughed at everyone else. Han did not look over.
"Maps do not fail," he said. "Readers do. Read the ground or you will buy the same mistake again."
They reached a weeping rock where a sheet of spring water crossed the path. Han stepped down first and lifted a hand.
