The road rolled beneath them like a quiet heartbeat. The carriage rattled not with urgency but purpose, weighted, deliberate. Runic glyphs etched into the floor pulsed in slow intervals, glowing amber with the rhythm of mana-fed suspension, keeping the ride smooth over the cobblestone track that wound through the broken highlands between Dawn's Edge and the western forests.
Outside, twilight had begun to stain the horizon in hues of rust and wine. A low fog curled through the tall grass, and the trees ahead loomed like tired sentinels.
Inside the carriage, the mood had shifted.
The conversation remained casual. Melisande leans back against the padded corner of the carriage bench, rubbing her ankles. Timur lounges across from her, legs crossed, his shoulder brushing Gorak's massive knee. Robin says little, as usual, sharpening something, probably not out of necessity. Celine sits close to Ludwig, hood pulled low, her presence quiet but not tense.
