As the camp stirred, Martin returned with firewood which he placed on the fire. Barral had woken unaware that the firedrake had gone, while Maggie kept the secrets. Garrum stalked from the trees, gold as the sun rising behind him, with a dead hare in one hand. He settled on a tree stump and began to gnaw on the furry leg of his catch while Martin cooked a mash of oats and berries for their breakfast. 

The last of the hummers was content to sit on Barral's head and the magician did nothing to make it fly again. The days had worn out what little magic he had at his disposal and he sighed heavily, exhausted from the use himself. The hummer, remaining corporeal, was almost all he could be expected to do for them. 

The morning went quietly and with the ability of those who were finding their niche in the preparations. The path was quiet as well, they were well away from any civilization. It would be days before they came to one of the larger towns and even then, it was still only to be a town. Bandits did not attack so far outside of the towns, neither were farms made in the soil which, despite it being good, was too magic to be of any good. Wild magic had unexpected results on one's crops. Rather, the towns were made of the few trades one could find in the outlying lands – mining, leather working, animals, and the making of weaponry. 

Surrounded by wood, Martin called a halt at luncheon and left Barral to make their meal. He stood down below the wagon and called up to the lady there. “Krista, would you like to practice?” he gave her a small smile and hefted a large stick before himself, offering that to her, rather than a hand down. It was, he hoped, something of an olive branch, an attempt to do as she wished as well as to, accept where she wanted to go.