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The caravan showed up at noon, right when the sun made everything harder to see.
Ava stood at the half-finished gate, one hand shading her eyes, the other resting on the timber frame Rain had braced that morning. Six wagons. Clean canvas covers. Horses that didn't look half-starved. Nobody fleeing the capital came through with horses like that.
"They're flying a merchant banner," Rain said beside her. His voice was low, careful. "But merchants don't travel in sixes. Not this season."
She knew. She'd grown up watching supply lines and trade routes from her father's study window while he lectured her about borders and soft invasions. A six-wagon convoy this close to winter meant either guild backing or noble sponsorship. Either way, it meant someone with money had sent them.
The lead driver raised a hand. He was older, maybe fifty, with the kind of neat beard that took daily trimming. "Hail, Windstone Hollow. We carry aid from the Southern Merchant Council. Grain, tools, and medical supplies for the refugees."
"Medical supplies," Sera muttered from behind Ava's shoulder. "Nobody sends those without a price tag."
Ava's pulse kicked up. The refugees needed food. She'd counted yesterday. They had maybe three weeks of barley and dried meat if they stretched it and nobody got sick. If this caravan had grain, she couldn't turn it away. But if Rain was right and these weren't merchants, then opening the gate meant letting in exactly what her father's enemies wanted.
"Open it halfway," she said. "Rain, get four men on the flanks. Sera, stay by the supply shed. If I signal, bar the door."
Rain's jaw tightened, but he nodded and moved.
The gate groaned as two of the younger refugees hauled it open just wide enough for a single wagon. The lead driver climbed down, boots hitting the dirt with the solid thud of good leather. He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Lady Windstone. It's an honor. The council heard about your new settlement and wanted to extend support." He gestured back at the wagons. "We've brought twelve barrels of grain, two crates of iron tools, and a field medic's kit. All of it, a gift."
A gift. Ava's father had taught her what gifts from councils meant. They were down payments. Anchors. You took the gift, and six months later they called in the debt with interest you couldn't see coming.
But the refugees were watching. She could feel their eyes on her back. They'd been eating thin stew for a week. If she turned away food because of suspicion, and winter came hard, they'd starve on her pride.
"That's generous," she said. Her voice came out steady. "Let's see it."
The driver's smile widened a fraction. He turned and waved, and two men started unloading the first crate. It was large, iron-banded, heavier than it should've been for medical supplies. They set it down in the dirt courtyard with a thunk that rattled.
Ava stepped closer. The wood was new. No scratches, no weathering. That meant it hadn't come far, or it had been packed recently. Specifically for this.
She knelt and worked the latch. The driver watched. So did Rain, from ten feet away, hand resting on the hilt of the long knife he'd started wearing after the wolf attack.
The lid creaked open.
Bandages on top. Clean linen rolls, sealed pouches of dried herbs. Underneath that, small glass vials of tincture. All of it normal. All of it exactly what a medic's kit should hold.
But the crate was too deep.
Ava pushed the top layer aside and her fingers hit something cold and metal. She pulled it up. A crossbow bolt. Steel head, fletched with crow feathers. Military issue. She'd seen enough of them in her father's armory to know.
Her stomach dropped.
She dug deeper. Six more bolts, bundled in oiled cloth. Then a folded square of parchment, edges crisp, wax seal already broken.
She unfolded it.
It was a map. Hand-drawn, recent ink. Windstone Hollow sat in the center, marked with a red circle. Lines radiated outward, each one labeled in small, precise script. Northern pass - 40 men. Eastern ridge - 20. Southern road - 15 + supply cache.
It was an invasion plan.
Ava's heartbeat hammered in her ears, but she kept her face still. She folded the map slowly, tucked it into her belt, and stood. Her knees didn't shake. She wouldn't let them.
"This is an interesting medical kit," she said.
The driver's smile finally dropped. "Lady Windstone, I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"I don't think so." She turned to Rain. "Close the gate. Nobody leaves."
Rain moved instantly, whistling sharp. The refugees on the flanks stepped in, blocking the wagon line. The driver's hand twitched toward his belt.
"Don't," Ava said. Her voice was ice. "You're standing in my fief, on my land, with my people at your back. You want to reach for that blade, go ahead. See how far you get."
The older man froze. Then, slowly, he straightened. His face smoothed into something cold and polite. "You're making a mistake. The council's protection isn't something you can afford to lose."
"I didn't ask for it."
"Your father did."
The words hit like a slap. Ava's breath caught, but she didn't let it show. "My father exiled me here. Whatever deal he made, it died when he dumped me in this hollow."
The driver studied her. Then he glanced past her, toward the ridge. His smile came back, thin and sharp.
"You might want to reconsider."
Something in his tone made her skin crawl. Ava turned.
The tree line along the eastern ridge flickered with movement. Shadows detaching, stepping into the low autumn sun. Men. A dozen, maybe more. Each one holding a crossbow, bolts nocked, aimed down into the hollow.
And they were all pointed at her people.
Rain swore, low and vicious. Sera's face went white.
The driver's smile widened. "The council sent aid, Lady Windstone. It would be wise to accept it."