The palace was a jagged silhouette against the pre-dawn sky as they rode further into the wilderness. The morning air was biting, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke. Here, the "roads" were little more than muddy tracks carved by heavy cartwheels and the weary feet of the oppressed.
Asarmose pulled his coarse wool cloak tighter around his shoulders. The mare beneath him was sturdy, but she lacked the smooth gait of the royal steeds he was accustomed to. He looked over at Alistair, who rode with a predatory stillness, his eyes constantly scanning the dense treeline.
"You're brooding," Asarmose noted, his voice a low hum over the sound of the horses' hooves. "Is it the loss of your throne, or the fact that the mud is starting to ruin your boots?"
Alistair didn't turn his head. "I'm wondering which of my 'loyal' subjects is currently selling the iron from my mines to the highest bidder while I'm out here playing traveler with a Prince who thinks this is a research project."
