Mud sucks at Arimari Tiarasan’s sandals as he and Reina crest the ridge. Below, two riders push hard toward the estate, their horses lathered and crooked with panic.

The path pinches to a single track between reeds and stone. Arimari sees the advantage at once, the riders must slow, and slowing is enough.

Reina darts downslope, white fur flashing through dusk. One rider jerks his reins, the other reaches for the satchel at his saddle, both of them caught between flight and fear.

Ash stink rides the wind as Arimari closes the distance with his naginata. Ahead lies the estate, behind him the lord’s fragile alliance, and in those riders’ hands the next blow against his clan.

Arimari snaps his naginata across the track, the blade kissing wet wood and mud as he bars the pass. The lead horse shies hard, hamstrung by the narrow road.

The rider twists in the saddle, but there is no room to spur past. His horse skids sideways, shoulder striking the stone edge with a jolt.

Arimari hooks the shaft under the reins and yanks. Leather snaps taut, the satchel tears free, and the rider spills his grip before he can shout.

Reina darts up from the reeds and catches the fallen pouch before it can sink into the mud. The second rider pulls up short, suddenly boxed in by steel, white fur, and stone.

Arimari drives the naginata point into the ground between the horses, forcing both mounts to rear and stop. From the split pouch, a folded route slip slips into view, marked for the outer road and already stained by ash.

Arimari drops to one knee in the mud and snatches the route slip before it sinks under a boot print.

The paper comes free with a smear of ash and water, its edge stamped with a house mark and a hurried hand.

Reina keeps the pouch open, her head turning toward the road below as if listening for the next rider.

Arimari flattens the slip against his palm and catches a glimpse of the destination, a relay point closer to the estate than the checkpoint.

The second rider leans in, horse sidling at the blocked road, while Reina shifts her stance between him and Arimari.

Arimari rises from the mud in one smooth motion, route slip still pinned in his left hand. He cuts hard across the second rider’s path, forcing horse and man to skew sideways at the ridge bend.

His naginata hooks the satchel strap cleanly. Leather snaps, the bag tears free, and the rider loses balance with a sharp curse as the horse stamps and shies.

Arimari lands a step lower on the slick bank, satchel in hand, and the pouch spills open. A folded relay strip and a waxed token tumble into the mud beside his heel.

The second rider reaches for his reins, but Reina’s stance holds him back from the road while Arimari turns the satchel inside out, checking for hidden papers.

Mud clings to the torn bag as Arimari keeps both satchel and route slip. Below them, the road still leads toward the estate, and the riders are boxed on the ridge with nowhere to slip past.

Arimari keeps the torn satchel low and works two fingers into the lining. Hidden paper catches under his nail, tucked deep where haste would miss it.

He draws out a narrow route note, then another, both folded flat with relay marks inked in a clerk’s cramped hand. The sheets are dry enough to read, and both point past the ridge toward the estate road.

A third scrap comes loose, a wax-sealed stub pressed into the seam. It bears the same house token as the spilled relay strip, but the fold hides a correction, a changed handoff time.

Reina shifts one step higher on the ridge, keeping the horseman from lunging forward, while Arimari thumbs the notes open against the mud and memorizes the route at a glance.

The satchel is now empty of useful paper. Below them, the road bends toward the estate, and the exposed notes show a cleaner path than the one the riders meant to take.

Arimari slides the route notes from the rider’s reach with a clean tug, then folds them once and tucks them into his sleeve. The correction line sits plain in the mud-stained light.

He does not get them. Arimari’s hand snaps back, and the rider’s fingers close on empty air.

Reina shifts her weight toward the horse’s shoulder, making the beast hesitate. The rider curses and reins hard, but the ridge gives him no room to rush.

Arimari sees it at once, the notes are not just orders, they are a schedule and a route. Whoever carries them is tied to the estate road, and the copy in his sleeve is the better one.

Below the ridge, hoofprints and wet tracks lead downhill toward the gate, while the rider sits exposed and empty-handed, waiting for the next move.

Arimari lifts the route notes just high enough for the rider to see the seal marks. The ridge wind tugs at the torn satchel, and the mud below them holds the shape of fresh hoofprints leading home.

Arimari steps his naginata across the path, not striking, only measuring the space between horse and road. The rider’s shoulders tighten, and his mount tosses its head at Reina’s steady pressure.

The agent’s hand closes on empty air where the papers once were. His eyes flick to the exposed satchel lining, then to the downhill tracks, as if weighing the price of another mile.

Arimari keeps the documents tucked away, and the rider finally wrenches his horse around. The animal sidesteps, splashing mud, and starts back the way it came. Below the ridge, the road to the estate still lies open.