Seven days.
Seven nights of camping under stars so bright they looked fake, like someone overdid the glitter budget for the sky. Seven nights of my butt slowly realizing it was not designed for extended carriage travel.
There were stories—Star Wars, somehow translated badly enough that Henry thought Darth Vader was a cursed knight with daddy issues, Joff insisting he could "feel the Force" after three cups of wine,
Latte asking if lightsabers could be forged by dwarves, and me providing commentary with peak sass and zero mercy. Coffi suggesting retelling it to the plaza. Hell no.
Raya and Chubby nearly declared war over dry meat.
Actual growling. Actual fire sparks. Shadow tendrils.
"IF YOU BURN IT, IT'S STILL MY MEAT," I snapped.
By the seventh day, my patience was thinner than Joff's sleep schedule. And then—Agro Territory appeared. I leaned forward in my seat. And froze. "…What," I said slowly, "the hell happened here?"
Coffi grumbled, eyes widening, "The farmland."
