Chapter 246 The Vigil of Greenfire

Four heavy iron braziers sat spaced evenly across the packed earth of the yard, positioned precisely thirty feet from the nearest timber wall. Elian checked the clearance of the final iron bowl and locked the legs into the dirt.

Travelers arriving for the Vigil of Greenfire had expected a massive, roaring bonfire to anchor the celebration. Elian refused to build a two-story column of flame directly beside a wooden waystation surrounded by highly flammable canvas tents.

Heda leaned against the porch rail, watching him adjust a fire screen. "You are spiritually boring."

Bruna carried a crate of split firewood through the door. "He is correct."

When the sun dropped behind the ridge, travelers tossed tight bundles of fresh spring herbs and green pine needles directly onto the hot coals. The smoke did not smell of heavy, choking winter ash. It rose in thin, pale columns, smelling sharp, green, and alive.

The taproom doors remained open. People ate hot stew from wooden bowls and sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the benches. A group of southern drovers stamped their boots in a low, rhythmic chant, while a merchant from the northern passes countered with a fast, looping tune on a stringed wooden instrument.

The crowd drew in the deep-cut corners of the mountain. Harak arrived with a detachment of South Watch riders, smelling of saddle leather and frost, relieved of duty for the night. Garoth walked down from the High-Timber spur, wearing a clean wool tunic. The grizzled logger stood near the bar, drinking dark ale and arguing about timber grades, enjoying a rare evening where he did not have to report a crisis or bandage a crushed hand.

Gerta marched up to the serving pass holding a wide, hammered-iron dwarven drinking bowl. She looked into the cauldron of Greenfire stew.

"This requires alcohol to properly settle in the stomach," Gerta announced.

"I am not pouring ale into a forty-gallon batch of food," Bruna replied.

Gerta nodded, accepting the logistical boundary. She pulled a leather flask from her belt and poured a heavy measure of clear, stinging dwarven spirits directly into her own bowl of stew. She stirred it with her spoon and walked away satisfied.

Elian moved through the room, checking the physical layout. Minor accommodations kept the dense crowd functional. Kaelis stood comfortably at a tall, chest-high barrel table Elian had rolled out from the dry-hold, sparing the centaur the awkward, dangerous process of folding her equine legs into the cramped human seating. Near the hearth, Sseka rested her lower coils on a wide, thick slab of slate positioned deliberately close to the fire. The stone soaked up the ambient heat, buffering the Naga against the freezing drafts that still swept across the floorboards.

Near the corner booth, two older travelers carrying heavy, scarred route packs stopped dead. They stared at the silver-furred Wolf Kin sitting against the wall.

The taller fighter dropped his fist to his chest in a crisp, military salute. "Pack Mother."

The room went quiet. Two dozen heads turned to look at the corner booth.

Vaelia scowled. She hated the sudden, suffocating weight of the room’s attention. "Sit down and eat your food before it gets cold," she ordered.

The fighters relaxed, taking a nearby bench. The taller one leaned over. "We are heading for the northern pass tomorrow. Are the snowpack clearances holding above the timberline?"

Vaelia opened her mouth. Her jaw set, automatically preparing to dictate the Vanguard operational status for the northern route.

She stopped. Her mouth closed. She shifted her gaze across the table to Rylia.

Rylia met her mother’s eyes, then turned to the veteran fighters. "The clearances are holding," the Alpha said smoothly. "But the meltwater is turning the secondary shale slopes to grease. Keep your wagons on the primary stone."

The fighters nodded, accepting the new authority without hesitation. Elian watched the exchange from the bar. When Rylia turned back to her food, Elian caught Vaelia hiding a quiet, genuine smile behind the rim of her clay cup.

By midnight, the singing faded. Tavi had fallen asleep completely underneath a heavy oak table, his cheek pressed against the floorboards. Bram reached under the timber, scooped the boy up with one massive arm, and draped him safely over his shoulder. Heda dove under the bench a second later, retrieving the boy’s new one-eared wooden bear from the sawdust before it could be swept into the morning trash.

The crowd thinned as travelers retreated to their rented bunks, private rooms, and canvas tents.

Elian sat at the Arbitration Table. The taproom was quiet. He opened the heavy leather cover of the master ledger, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and prepared to calculate the sheer financial cost of the free stew, the burned wood, and the displaced market fees.

A hand clamped down firmly on the vellum page.

Bruna flipped the heavy cover shut.

"Tomorrow," Bruna said.

Elian looked at the closed book, looked at the exhausted cook, and set his pen down. He actually obeyed.

Outside in the yard, the sharp green smoke finally faded, and the iron braziers banked safely down to glowing red coals.