What had been overlooked in the roar of speeches and the weight of planning was the simplest of realities: wheels did not belong in the Wasteland. Luke had learned this lesson the hard way on his first crossing with Ilyrana—hours wasted, straining shoulders, pushing, pulling, circling back just to free the carriage again. The ground here was treacherous. Not soft like dunes of sand but cracked, gritty, and ever-shifting in strange patches, as though the land itself resented being crossed. Carriages sank where no depression could be seen. The axles bent and shrieked. And when the march grew too wide to correct the problem, there was only one answer.
The carriages were left behind.
