The morning sky above Elandra was cloudless and pale, the kind of sky that promised dry winds and dust in the teeth. At the edge of the Dawnwatch Barracks, four figures stood in silence—each armored, armed, and alert.
Lyra adjusted the grip on her bow. Korrik the Bastion leaned against his massive shield like it was part of him. Arienne of Solmere stood with arms folded, her robes faintly glowing under the morning light. Inigo, in freshly polished combat armor, stood slightly apart, his fingers absently twitching near his belt.
The city gates opened with a long groan of iron and timber. Beyond lay the old imperial road—cracked, worn, and destined to wind through more than a thousand kilometers of plains, mountains, ruins, and wasteland before reaching the edge of the Western Rift.
Lyra glanced sideways at Inigo. "We're walking that?"
"Yeah," Korrik added, squinting west. "I count maybe thirty days on foot. Forty if the terrain turns sour. Fifty if we don't kill each other first."
