Joseph Tharnen, Junior, stepped down from the back of the wagon, boots crunching dry gravel as the team rattled on toward the stables. The caravan didn’t stop for long—just enough to water horses, check wheels, and trade rumors. He’d told them he wasn’t going farther west. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He swung his pack over one shoulder, sun-washed and canvas-heavy. The shoulder strap had long since molded to his shape. Inside: a coil of rope, two shirts, and a ledger that held more numbers than letters. It had been a good run, all things considered. He had sold all of his trade goods and made a decent profit along the way. He could’ve stayed with the other merchants in the caravan, taken the back trail to Redbrush and caught the rail west through the valley. But home was south, and Montrey was the gate. That meant a new ticket.

And maybe a companion. His brother, MacKenzie.

Last letter said he was keeping busy in the city—books, odd jobs, and part-time courier work. He was enrolled at the University, of course—that was the point of being in Delano. The courier work helped cover his spending money, supplementing what Pa and Mama sent for tuition and board.

The station lay past the grain hall, its pitched roof and soot-streaked tiles crouched behind a loading dock. Joe crossed the square, sidestepping wagons and lines of barterers. The square wasn’t large—no more than fifty paces across—but it thrummed with voices. Farmers talked hay and tariffs. A taxman with a long vest and a writing board asked questions in a low voice near the well.

Joe kept walking.

He passed a vendor selling plum paste buns. Bought two, out of habit more than hunger. The girl handed them to him on a square of rough waxed cloth. “You waiting for the Raleigh train?” she asked.

One bite and he remembered Mac as a boy—cramming food into his mouth with a grin too wide for his face. Cities always tasted different. This one tasted like someone else's memory.

Joe shook his head. “Headed South. Not sure when.”

She nodded, like it didn’t matter either way.

A bell clanged in the distance—single stroke. The train yard’s change of shift.

Joe walked on.

The bank was just off the main square, stone-fronted with brass lettering above the door that had worn down to a dull shine. Joe stepped inside and waited in a short line. When it was his turn, he handed the clerk a small stack of deposit slips—tallies from each stop along the route, inked and initialed.

"Sales from the road," he said. "Merchant account under Tharnen."

The clerk nodded, counted quietly, and made a notation.

Joe tapped the counter. "And I’ll need some coin out. Enough for rail south and a few days’ roof."

The clerk obliged without comment, sliding a stack of folded notes and silver chips toward him.

Joe tucked them into his coat. "Much obliged," he said, then stepped back out into the sun. As he exited, Joe passed a clerk in Church robes—gray with a narrow white sash. The man gave a shallow nod but said nothing. A brass pin shaped like the Purity sigil gleamed on his collar.

Just a reminder, Joe thought, that even coin moved under doctrine these days.

The post house was just up the street from the bank. The whitewash was dazzling in the morning sun. As he entered, Jos was grateful for the cool of the darkened room. He scanned the desks and booths until he saw the one marked “INQUIRIES,” and walked over to do just that.

The clerk looked up from her stool, eyes bored. She was younger than he expected—sharp cheekbones, full mouth, and a wave of black hair coiled back in a loose twist that caught the light when she moved.

“Looking for someone,” Joe said, putting an elbow on the booth’s counter.

“Got a name?”

“MacKenzie Tharnen.”

“We don’t give out personal information on couriers or employees. House policy. What’s he to you?”

“My brother.”

She snorted. “That supposed to help?”

Joe leaned forward and gave her a crooked smile—just enough charm to smooth the edge. “It isn’t supposed to hurt.”

She looked at him a moment longer. “You do look like him,” she said, as if weighing something.

Then she made her decision. She leaned forward slightly—just enough to suggest this wasn’t protocol anymore. “Try the tenement near Calder’s bookhouse. He signs for messages there sometimes.”

Joe nodded. “Thanks.”

She gave him a longer look, lips quirking. “You busy after you find him?”

Joe smiled, warm but distant. “Wish I wasn’t. Got places to be. No time for fun right now.”

He adjusted his collar slightly as he left, half-aware of her eyes still on his back.

When he got back on the street, Joe noticed on the wall of building across the street from the post house a fresh broadsheet flapping in the breeze: NOTICE OF CONSCRIPTION: DEFENSE DUTY.

A dockhand spit near it. “Granblue’s not coming this way,” he muttered, “but Raleigh acts like we’re next on the line.”

Joe kept walking and didn’t answer. He’d seen how wrong men could be when they said something wouldn’t happen.

The tenement was worse than he’d pictured. Not squalid—just old. Stone corners sunk deeper than they used to, bricks patched with mismatched mortar. He knocked on three doors before a boy with missing shoes pointed him upstairs.

 “Y’might try the widow’s place. Over there,” the boy said, pointing toward a squat stone house with smoke curling from its chimney. “He boards there.”

Joe gave him a copper chip. The boy vanished.

The door creaked when he knocked. A small woman opened it—half his height, older than she looked, black scarf wound tight around her head.

“MacKenzie Tharnen,” he said.

“He boards here,” she said. She studied his face. “You his brother?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her expression changed slightly. “You better come in.”

Joe stepped across the threshold. The room smelled of boiled lentils and old books. Two windows let in gray light.”

“He’s lived here a couple of years,” the woman said. “Quiet boy, keeps to himself mostly. Polite. Pays on time. Comes and goes regular. I had the lung rot over the winter—he kept the stove going and fetched my groceries, he wouldn’t take a discount or coin. Said his mama raised him right.”

Joe smiled. “That sounds like him. Any idea where I might find him?”

The woman tilted her head, thinking. “University’s on break, so he’s probably out delivering messages. He picks up temp work when classes aren’t in session. You could try the post house, or the rail yards—though someone mentioned he’d stopped by the freight office earlier this week asking about extra shifts. Could be he’s there.”

Joe stood in the middle of the room a moment longer.

“Thank you,” he said.

As he walked to the door, the widow continued. “That boy’s too sweet for soldiering,” she said, pressing her palm to her temple. “You ask me, he’s the preacher type.”

Joe almost smiled. If she knew the thoughts running through Mac’s letters these days, she might reconsider.

He was halfway to the rail yard when he heard someone call his name.

“Joe! Joe Junior!”

Joe winced at the name but didn’t break stride. No one else in the world called him that—not unless they wanted correcting. But from Mac, it was allowed. Maybe even welcome.

He turned, hand already near the strap of his bag. The voice was familiar, just pitched deeper than memory allowed. A tall, heavyset figure trotted toward him—short hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled, breath catching.

MacKenzie.

They met in the middle of the lane, neither speaking for a moment.

Joe stepped in and gave him a quick, solid hug. Mac stiffened for half a second—then clapped him on the back. Different, sure. But they were brothers. And that still counted.

Mac pushed back, but held Joe with both hands at arm’s length, and smirked. ”You’re not supposed to be here. Did the merchant guild finally figure out you’re better at spending than selling?”

Joe grinned. “Said I was setting a bad example for the honest thieves.”

Mac snorted. “Figures. Bet you sweet-talked your way out of it.”

“Didn’t need to,” Joe said. “I left ‘em a better ledger than they’ve seen in ten years. One of them cried.”

“Out of gratitude or grief?”

“Hard to say.” Joe’s smile widened. “I was already gone.”

They laughed as they moved to the side of the street, out of the wagon path. For a moment, Joe just studied his younger brother. Mac had always been thick through the shoulders and chest—stocky, with a softness that made him look heavier than he was. He wasn’t fat, not yet, but it was clear he fought a losing battle with his frame. Joe knew he trained hard—quarterstaff and breaker rod drills every day should melt the flesh off his bones—but it seemed to only keep him even. The way Mac was holding him, there was muscle under the weight, serious strength too.

Joe also saw the quiet toll it took. The self-conscious way Mac stood. The way his eyes flicked down and then up again, measuring himself without meaning to. Joe, taller and cut cleaner in the face, looked more like the best of both their parents. And that, he knew, probably didn’t help.

Joe sat on a crate near a grain shop. Mac followed suit.

“You look good, big brother,” Mac said.

“Travel agrees with me. And speaking of travel...” He pulled his letter from his coat. “…since Pa said to come home, I figured I’d find you. We could go together.”

Mac stared at him, open-jawed. “You’re going home?”

Joe nodded slowly. This was not the reaction he’d expected.

Mac pulled out a letter that looked identical to Joe’s. “Stay put. That’s what he wrote. Said the university break wasn’t an excuse to slack off. Told me to keep working courier jobs and to stay sharp. He even sent extra money so I could take the summer session instead of coming home.”

They stared at each other. Joe raised an eyebrow. Joe didn’t like guessing games, and his father wasn’t usually one for them.

“So he gives you a summons and gives me a leash,” Mac said, voice tightening. “Good to know where I stand.”

“It’s not like that,” Joe said. He hadn’t thought of it that way—but now he couldn’t help seeing the disparity.

“Isn’t it?” Mac shoved the letter back into his coat. “I get left behind. You get brought home like a prodigal. But why am I surprised?” Mac stood up and threw up his hands in a huff. “This is just the latest. Pa says I have to lose weight, I'll have health issues. Then he says I can't learn sword work,” Mac’s voice got sharp. “Said it wasn’t for me, I'm not nimble enough. Like I’d break if I picked up a blade. Funny thing,” Mac said, voice like gravel, “I never knew the blade cared how nimble the hand was. What the hell’s he planning?”

Joe’d known about that decision—hadn’t liked it—but until now, he hadn’t realized how deep it had sunk into Mac’s bones. Being passed over. Being doubted.

Joe had watched men come unstrung before. But this wasn’t that. This was a younger brother tying knots around a pain he didn’t understand—and being told it was his own fault. Joe wanted to unwind it for him, but some knots didn’t come loose with words.

He gave Mac a long look. “I don’t know. But something doesn’t add up. Mama wouldn’t want us apart like that. I can’t believe Pa would either – not without a reason.”

Mac rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight. Then he sighed and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. You and Mercy—you’re the only ones who’d get it. Pa’s clipped your wings too. I just...”

Joe nodded once. “I know.” Joe had tried to explain it to Mac once: how the middle child always slipped between the planks. Not oldest, not youngest. Just the one expected to stay steady. That’s why he knew the look.

“I just hate feeling like a guest in my own family,” Mac exhaled through his nose. “Fine. I’ll go with you. We’ll go home together. And if Pa doesn’t like it, well,...maybe it's time I left the nest like you and Mercy.”

Joe got up and clapped Mac on the shoulder. He was glad Mac was coming, but part of him knew the collision brewing between his brother and their father wasn’t something he wanted to witness. Still, he figured it was better they face it together.

“Then we’ll grab your gear—maybe catch some grub before we go?” Joe asked. “I don’t think the train leaves until tomorrow morning.” They’d need to bunk down in town for the night.

As they stepped into the square to cut across toward the ticket office, a street vendor waved from a cart stacked with roasted chestnuts and fried sweetcakes.

“Hey! You—Tharnen, right?” the woman called.

Mac turned, wary at first. Then recognition lit his face. “Miz Bowen, isn’t it?”

“Yep. You helped my cousin’s kid with that scholarship paperwork. Said you’d done the same for the kids with the monks down on Brattle Street.”

Mac gave a sheepish smile. “Just made a few suggestions.”

“Well, he got in,” she said, handing him a sweetcake unasked. “No charge.”

Joe watched the whole exchange. Mac was still looking down at the cake, uncomfortable with the attention.

He wasn’t sure how to take it. The kindness embarrassed him more than it pleased him.

Joe studied his brother for a moment. Mac shrugged like it was nothing—but it wasn’t. The world noticed him, even if their father didn’t.

Mac glanced sideways at Joe. “They remember me for that?” he said, almost under his breath. “Not the time I knocked out that pickpocket in the alley?”

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It always did. He expected the world to see his weight before his worth.

“Sometimes it’s the quiet favors that echo loudest,” Joe said.

Mac had fans here, Joe thought. People who noticed. People who remembered. Funny how Pa never seemed to. Joe wasn’t sure what Pa saw when he looked at Mac. But the square had seen him. And maybe that was enough—for now.

So, with quiet agreement, they turned and walked to the ticket shed.

Neither of them said it, but the air felt different now. As if the dust had already started to settle into something heavier.

Behind them, the square kept moving. Ahead, the road home waited.