The Iron Road — A Contract Sealed in Ink

Dawn breaks grey and cold over Neverwinter's eastern gate. The city stirs to the clatter of cart wheels and the bark of merchants, but the air holds a peculiar stillness—the quiet before a long road swallows you whole.

You and Seraphina stand at the entrance to the Iron Road Trading Company's compound, a sprawling yard of oxen, wagons, and cursing teamsters. The foreman is a barrel-chested human named Garrett Vance, his face scarred by weather and his hands calloused from thirty years of pulling ropes and settling disputes with his fists.

He looks you both over with the practiced eye of a man who's seen every kind of desperate soul walk through his gate.

"You the ones who answered the posting?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Twelve days to Waterdeep. Pay is fifteen silvers each, plus a bonus if we arrive without losing a wagon. You'll walk the perimeter at night, keep the bandits off our backs, and if we hit trouble in the Crags—" He spits to the side. "—you earn your keep."

Seraphina's hand rests on her sword hilt. She says nothing, but her presence speaks volumes.

Vance grunts. "Good. You look like you've seen a fight or two. The caravan leaves in an hour. Last wagon, left side. Don't be late."

You find your assigned post—a supply wagon loaded with salted fish, bolts of cloth, and sealed crates marked with a merchant's insignia you don't recognize. The oxen low in their yokes, breath pluming in the cold morning air.

Seraphina climbs onto the bench beside the driver, a taciturn dwarf named Orin Copperkettle who offers you a nod and a grunt. She pats the empty space beside her, a thin smile on her lips.

"First time riding toward trouble instead of away from it?"

The caravan lurches forward as the gates groan open. Neverwinter's walls recede behind you, the sea wind carrying salt and the distant cry of gulls. Ahead lies the Trade Way—a long, dusty ribbon of road that winds through farmland, forest, and eventually, the rocky foothills of the Crags.

Somewhere out there, a trail grows cold. Somewhere, a symbol waits to be found again.

You settle into the rhythm of the wagon's creak and the oxen's patient plodding. The road stretches before you, long and uncertain.

Ten hours later, the sun hangs low and orange over the rolling hills. The caravan has stopped to water the oxen at a shallow river crossing. The air smells of wet stone and pine.

While Seraphina stretches her legs and Orin checks the wagon's axle, you notice something that catches your attention—

A set of tracks in the soft mud near the riverbank. Boot prints. Heavy, recent, and leading away from the road into the treeline. Too regular to be random. And there, half-hidden in the muck, a faint impression—

A crescent moon, eclipsing a circle.

Your breath catches. It's not the exact symbol from the raid. But it's close. Close enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

"Theron." Seraphina's voice is low, measured. She's standing beside you, her eyes fixed on the treeline. "You see something?"

The tracks are fresh. Whoever left them is still nearby. The caravan is vulnerable here—strung out along the river, guards distracted by the halt.

You have a choice to make.