The carriage jolted over a stray root, the rhythmic creaking of the wooden wheels the only sound in the vast, emerald expanse of the Southern Wilds.
Inside, Egon sat across from Hilga, watching the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy, dancing in dappled patterns across her silver-white hair.
Hilga was unusually fidgety. Her hands, usually folded perfectly in her lap, were busy smoothing the creases of her traveling cloak. Her lavender eyes darted toward the window every few seconds before settling back on Egon with a look of quiet confusion.
"Master Egon?" her voice was soft, barely rising above the hum of the forest.
"I told you to drop the 'Master' while we're on the road, Hilga. To anyone we meet, I'm just a merchant, and you're my associate."
