The road stretched out like a ribbon of cracked stone beneath the late afternoon sun. Wind swept across the plains, carrying the scent of dry grass and the distant chatter of unseen birds.
The carriage, drawn by Fenrir's massive strides, moved with a steady rhythm that made the journey surprisingly smooth.
Damien leaned back in his seat, fingers drumming idly on the window frame. He had deliberately chosen this method of travel rather than flying with Aquila or Skylar. Flying was faster, yes, but also loud—too visible, too obvious. He wanted to see who might follow. And he had no doubt that someone would.
"Why a carriage?" Lyone asked, his arms crossed. "You could've had us soaring across the plains. This feels… slow."
Damien's lips curved faintly. "Because this way, they'll come to us. And when they do, I'll know who's bold enough to chase us."
