Day one of the Journey.
The carriage rattled over the frozen earth, the wheels groaning in protest against the uneven terrain.
Outside, the world had been stripped of color. The lush forests of the capital had given way to the jagged, teeth-like peaks of the Whispering Mountains. The snow here wasn't the soft, romantic fluff of the Solstice. It was hard, driven by a biting wind that howled like a dying animal.
Inside the carriage, the temperature was dropping rapidly.
Primrose sat on the velvet bench, wrapping a thick fur blanket tighter around Caspian's shoulders.
The King was shivering violently. His skin, usually pale, had taken on a translucent, grey quality. The black veins of the corruption had spread past his collar, creeping up his neck like ivy, pulsing with a sickly, dark rhythm.
"How far?" Caspian rasped, his eyes squeezed shut.
"We just passed the Mile Marker," Primrose lied softly. "We're making good time."
