The sound of hooves against stone echoed across the hillside road, muffled by the heavy velvet drapes of the carriage, but still sharp in Ludwig's ears. The world beyond the wooden wheels was changing—warmer, busier, alive. The sharp, grim stillness of the Bastos March was already dissolving behind them like a fading nightmare.
Ahead of them, the fortified stone walls of Mira stood tall and proud, flanked by twin towers and a gatehouse that bore the blue and gold sigil of the Kingdom of Lamar. The walls, though not towering like a fortress, were clean, reinforced, and well maintained—testament to Mira's strategic importance as both a trading hub and a border checkpoint.
Guards in polished chainmail patrolled the ramparts, their crossbows lazily held but their eyes alert. More of them stood at the foot of the gate itself—half a dozen at least, maintaining the line of arriving and departing caravans with what could generously be called bureaucratic indifference.
