The Merchant's Exchange at dawn resembled a controlled explosion of commerce and caffeine dependency. Traders shouted over each other in three different languages, oxen complained about early mornings with the philosophical resignation of creatures who'd accepted their lot in life, and somewhere in the chaos, someone was loading a wagon with what sounded like very angry chickens.

The Fragmented Flame stood at the periphery of this organized madness, studying their assignment with the sort of intense concentration usually reserved for defusing explosive devices.

"Escort duty," Ember read from the Guild contract. "Master Aldwin Crestwell's trading caravan, Amaranth to Mirra. Cargo: luxury textiles, rare spices, and assorted fragile antiquities."

"Duration: six to seven days," Cinder continued. "Weather permitting."

"Guard against bandits, monsters, and acts of divine malice," Ash added with the tone of someone reading a grocery list. "Standard rate plus hazard pay for crystal flatlands crossing."

Kindle rubbed her hands together, summoning her cerulean flames for effect. "Our first proper escort mission! Well, as guild members, anyway. This is so traditional!"

"Disturbingly traditional," Cinder agreed. "Six whole days of walking next to wagons. At wagon speed. Which is basically the speed of continental drift."

The caravan in question occupied a significant portion of the Exchange's western quadrant. Five wagons arranged in traveling formation, each pulled by teams of oxen whose expressions suggested they'd rather be anywhere else. Canvas covers protected mysterious cargo from the predawn chill, while guards in leather armor pretended to ignore the five brightly colored adventurers in their midst.

Master Aldwin Crestwell himself stood beside the lead wagon, consulting a pocket watch the size of a small shield. He was the sort of man who approached commerce with military discipline—immaculate clothes, perfectly groomed beard, and the kind of posture that declared his spine had been replaced with a steel rod sometime in his youth.

"Adventurers' Guild escort," Ember announced as they approached. "Team Fragmented Flame, reporting for duty."

Crestwell's pale blue eyes swept over them with the calculating assessment of someone who evaluated everything in terms of cost versus benefit. "Five escorts for a standard run. Rather more than requested."

"Guild standard," Cinder replied smoothly. "Ensures comprehensive coverage."

"And we work as a unit," Kindle added helpfully. "Package deal!"

Crestwell's expression showed he wasn't entirely convinced, but his pocket watch indicated it was too close to departure time to bother renegotiating. "Very well. Standard formation—two scouts ahead, two flanking, one rear guard. We maintain twelve miles per day, weather permitting."

Twelve miles per day. The words hung in the morning air like a personal insult to everything the Fragmented Flame represented.

"Twelve," Pyra repeated faintly.

"Miles," Ash continued.

"Per day," Cinder finished, sounding like she'd been asked to count grains of sand on a beach.

Crestwell consulted his watch again. "We depart in thirty minutes. Standard pace, standard protocols. I trust that won't be a problem?"

Five identical smiles answered him—the sort of smiles that guaranteed problems were incoming, but everyone would remain polite about it until the inevitable chaos began.

The first hour of escort duty unfolded with the kind of pastoral tranquility that belonged in landscape paintings and marketing materials for rural vacation destinations. The wagons rolled along the western trade road at a pace that could charitably be described as "stately" and more accurately as "geological." Oxen plodded with the resigned determination of creatures who'd made peace with the concept of schedules. Wagon wheels creaked in harmonious rhythm.

The Fragmented Flame maintained proper escort formation with the rigid discipline of people actively fighting their own nature.

Pyra and Kindle flanked the caravan at a walking pace that made them both twitch visibly. Every few minutes, one of them would accidentally surge forward three or four steps before catching themselves and slowing back to oxen speed.

Ember and Cinder scouted ahead, technically maintaining the recommended fifty-yard advance but spending most of their time running quick reconnaissance loops and returning with reports of "still nothing happening" delivered with increasing frustration.

Ash brought up the rear guard, drifting along behind the last wagon while conducting a philosophical dialogue with the oxen about the nature of burden and purpose.

"The existential weight of cargo," she explained to a particularly attentive ox, "exceeds its physical mass. You carry not just textiles, but the dreams and ambitions of—"

"BANDITS!" Cinder's voice cut across the morning stillness.

Every member of the escort formation snapped to combat readiness. Weapons materialized. The oxen continued plodding with the unflappable calm of creatures who'd seen this drill before.

Cinder jogged back from her scouting position. "Three riders. Eastern ridge. Watching the caravan."

Crestwell produced a brass spyglass and studied the distant figures. "Standard positioning for reconnaissance. They're evaluating our defenses."

"Should we engage?" Ember asked.

"Standard protocol calls for a show of force," Crestwell replied. "Demonstrate that we're prepared for trouble."

The bandits—if they were bandits—sat their horses on the ridge like silhouettes cut from black paper. Definitely watching. Definitely calculating. Probably making the kind of poor life choices that led to careers in highway robbery.

"Show of force," Pyra repeated. "We can do that."

"Subtle show of force," Ember emphasized. "We don't want to—"

Too late.

Pyra had launched herself up the ridge at a sprint, trailing a cometary tail of flame. She crested the rise in seconds, gathering herself and releasing an arc of fireballs in the general direction of the suspected bandits. The horizon exploded in pyrotechnic splendor, fireballs blossoming like exploding flowers.

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The bandits hastily wheeled their mounts and rode away at a gallop, vanishing over the far side of the ridge.

Pyra's voice carried back on the morning breeze. "YOU'D BETTER RUN, YOU MISERABLE, HEARTLESS HOODLUMS! THAT'S RIGHT, SCATTER! NOBODY THREATENS MY CARAVAN!"

Crestwell lowered his spyglass slowly. "That was... efficient."

"But effective!" Kindle assured him.

"Possibly excessive, given the situation," Ash observed.

"Nonsense," Pyra said, returning in a series of fiery leaps that singed the grass at her landing points. "Subtlety is overrated."

Two hours into the afternoon watch, they'd fallen into an escort rhythm that somehow managed to be mind-numbingly dull and physically excruciating at the same time. This was partly due to the oxen, whose unhurried pace made mountains of the surrounding hills, and partly due to the caravan guards, who insisted on "proper" escort protocol with the passionate intensity of people who'd mistaken the means for the end.

"At this rate," Kindle calculated, "we'll encounter maybe four or five threats over the entire journey."

"According to standard bandit patterns," Ash agreed. "Raiders prefer to strike at lower-risk locations, with terrain and weather conditions in their favor. This stretch of road provides few such opportunities."

"Six whole days," Ember said bleakly.

"Six whole days," the others agreed with identical glum tones.

Crestwell had moved ahead to consult with his lead driver about the afternoon's route, leaving the five sisters to contemplate their fate in relative privacy.

"This is torture," Kindle muttered, watching a particularly slow ox negotiate what could generously be called a minor incline. "We could run to Mirra, set up camp, cook dinner, and still have time to explore the crystal markets before this caravan covers the same distance."

"We could run there, complete a side quest, and run back before they notice we're gone," Pyra added, kicking at a loose stone that skittered ahead of the lead wagon.

Ash drifted closer to their impromptu conference. "The fundamental inefficiency stems from treating time as an unlimited resource. Standard caravan operations assume travel days are fixed units rather than variables to be optimized."

"Meaning?" Ember asked.

"Meaning we could finish this entire escort in two days if we applied basic optimization principles," Cinder said, casting a frustrated glance back at the lumbering wagons. "Six days is just... just..."

"Stupid?" Kindle suggested.

"Slow?" Pyra offered helpfully.

"Draconian?" Ash added.

"I was going for 'unwieldy,' but yes, those all work," Cinder replied.

Ember sighed. "Look, I know this is... less than optimal." She ignored the chorus of snorts that greeted her words. "But we're professionals. We took the job. We do it right, even when right feels... inefficient."

"Inefficient is kind," Ash replied.

"Profoundly inefficient," Cinder added.

"Moronically inefficient," Ash agreed.

Pyra launched into an a cappella version of "The Wheels On The Wagon Go Round And Round" with enthusiastic harmonies.

"We've been on the road for half a day," Ember said.

"And we're dying," Kindled added.

"Fine," Ember relented. "What would your 'optimization' involve?"

They huddled in the middle of the caravan, ignoring Crestwell's curious glance. It would have been a strange sight—five near-identical adventurers clustered close together, speaking in tones that were almost but not quite whispers. Almost because it's hard to whisper when everyone's talking at once. Not quite because they were trying.

"But we can't just carry the wagons," Kindle pointed out. "That would be too obvious."

"Who said anything about carrying wagons?" Pyra's eyes had acquired the gleam that usually preceded either brilliant innovations or spectacular disasters. "We just need to think like a speed run."

"A what now?" Ember asked.

"Speed run! Like in games. You take a standard challenge and figure out how to complete it as fast as possible using only the tools and rules already available. No cheating, just optimization."

The others stared at her.

"What?" Pyra continued. "We have escort duty, right? Guard the caravan, get it to Mirra safely. Nothing in the contract says we have to do it slowly."

Ash pursed her lips in thought. "An intriguing conceptual framework. Treat the escort mission as an optimization problem rather than a temporal endurance test."

"Exactly! We find every inefficiency in the current system and fix it. Road conditions, route planning, threat management, logistics coordination. Make everything run smoother without breaking any rules."

"The oxen are the limiting factor," Cinder observed. "They can only move so fast."

"But they're not moving at their maximum sustainable pace," Kindle pointed out. "Look at them. They're practically sleepwalking. A little motivation could double their speed without stressing them."

Ember studied the caravan with fresh eyes. "The wagons stop every two hours for 'scheduled rests' whether the oxen need them or not. The loading and unloading process takes fifteen minutes when it could take five. The route follows the main road even when shortcuts exist."

"And we're reacting to threats instead of preventing them," Cinder added. "If we scouted ahead properly, we could clear potential problems before the caravan reaches them."

"The question is whether Crestwell would cooperate," Ash said. "Traditional merchants value predictability over efficiency."

As if summoned by their conversation, Crestwell returned from his consultation with the lead driver. His expression bore the resigned look of someone who'd just learned that the afternoon's travel would be even slower than the morning's.

"Problems?" Ember asked.

"The lead oxen are showing signs of fatigue," Crestwell replied. "Henderson recommends extended rest stops for the remainder of the day."

The five sister-selves exchanged glances.

"Sir Crestwell," Pyra said carefully, "hypothetically speaking, would you be interested in reaching Mirra ahead of schedule?"

Crestwell's pale eyes sharpened. "Hypothetically? Every day early saves money on provisions and wages. Every day late costs potential profits from delayed deliveries. Why do you ask?"

"We've been observing the caravan's operation," Ember said diplomatically. "There might be room for minor improvements."

"What sort of improvements?"

Cinder stepped forward, her merchant instincts fully engaged. "Route optimization. Your current path follows the main trade road, which prioritizes ease of travel over distance. A more direct route could save ten to fifteen miles."

"Logistics efficiency," Kindle added. "Rest stops, loading procedures, camp setup. Small changes could save significant time."

"Preventive security," Ember continued. "Instead of reacting to threats, we eliminate them before they reach the caravan."

"And oxen motivation," Pyra finished. "Those animals aren't tired, they're bored. A little encouragement could double their pace."

Crestwell listened with the expression of a man caught between opportunity and caution. "These 'minor improvements'—they wouldn't compromise caravan safety?"

"Enhanced safety is part of the optimization," Ash assured him. "Faster travel reduces exposure time to potential threats."

"And you're confident these methods would actually work?"

Five confident nods answered him.

"The main road route has been used for twenty years," Crestwell said slowly. "It's proven reliable."

"Reliable and optimal aren't the same thing," Cinder pointed out. "When was the last time anyone tested alternatives?"

Crestwell considered this, his merchant instincts clearly warring with his risk-averse nature. "One day," he decided finally. "You can implement your 'optimizations' for one day. If anything goes wrong, we return to standard procedures."

"Agreed," Ember said before any of the others could complicate the negotiation.

"Excellent!" Pyra rubbed her hands together. "When do we start?"

"Now," Cinder said, already moving toward the lead wagon. "No point waiting."

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