Marsh was checking the posts at the waterfall perimeter when the runner crashed through the brush. The woman stumbled, caught herself on a tree, and looked back over her shoulder like something with teeth was close behind. Blood streaked her sleeve. A canvas bag hung across her chest, bulging with something that clinked when she moved. She saw Marsh and changed direction, sprinting straight at them. The bag swung wild as she ran. She didn't slow down until she was three steps away, then dropped hard to her knees. The bag landed between them with a heavy thud. Inside, Marsh could see the corner of a wooden sign — painted letters, part of a carved border. The woman's breath came in ragged gasps. Behind her, up near the base of the mountain where purple light pulsed through the rocks, voices shouted orders. Marsh looked past her toward the mountain. A blade stuck out of a tree trunk, still quivering. The handle was wrapped in red cord. That mark meant militia — the kind that burned outpost shelters and asked questions never. The woman grabbed Marsh's wrist. Her fingers were cold and shaking. She shoved the bag closer and tried to stand, but her legs gave out. "They'll kill anyone who has it," she whispered. Then she was up and running again, crashing back into the brush without the bag. Marsh stood alone with the contraband at their feet. The voices from the mountain grew louder. Inside the canvas, the wooden sign read Charming Village in hand-painted letters — the original marker from a trading post that had been destroyed six years ago. Marsh knew three factions that would pay blood to own it, and two more that would burn it to ash. They picked up the bag and turned toward the waterfall. The trading post they were building needed people to trust it. Protecting this runner's secret was how that trust got built.