The Ashreach Transit House stood just inside Federation territory, a squat stone building that had seen generations of caravans come and go.
The yard smelled of hay, damp earth, horse sweat, and axle grease.
Holding pens lined one side of the courtyard.
Covered wagon bays occupied the other.
Clerks hurried between them carrying ledgers thicker than bricks.
Torin had always liked places like this.
Everyone here had a purpose.
Nothing moved without being counted.
Their consignment was waiting exactly where the transfer manifest said it would be.
Two crates rested on a wooden pallet beneath one of the wagon shelters.
Each had already been sealed with wax and bound tightly with leather straps.
Someone had packed them with exceptional care.
Almost excessive care.
The smaller crate looked ordinary.
Plain timber.
Iron bands.
Compact enough that Torin lifted one end experimentally with a single hand.
"Not heavy."
Brogan nodded.
"The manifest says personal effects."
