Chapter 120
I hate traveling.
Not just the walking, though the endless torment of it certainly ranked high on my list of grievances. Not just the dust that clung to everything like a bad reputation, while your boots try to eat your toes one blister at a time. Not even just the food, which somehow manages to be simultaneously half stale and half mysterious, like it was cooked in a forgotten prophecy.
No!
I hate the whole concept of travel. The wide, never-ending road. The horizon that never gets closer. The birds that chirp like they've just heard a hilarious joke at your expense, and not to mention the general and persistent sensation that everything is mildly out to get you.
We were a few days into our journey to the royal capital, and I was already fantasizing about faking an ankle injury and quietly retiring in a ditch. A ditch might be peaceful. No goblins. No cults. Just dampness and regret, which seemed like a blissful option at this point.
