Clip. Clop.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed like a steady heartbeat through the open road, blending with the lazy creak of oiled carriage wheels. Each sound was a lullaby to Asher's senses, a slow cadence that accompanied his thoughts as he reclined into the velvet-lined couch.
The interior of the carriage whispered wealth and war-earned authority. Dark mahogany panels shimmered with faint runes—wards of protection and silence—while gold filigree curled along the trim like ivy. Embroidered across the ceiling in silver thread was the sigil of House Ashbourne: a white wolf howling against the skies.
It was not just decoration. It was a tale.
This carriage had seen castles, manors and diplomatic halls alike. It had once ferried a highlords he couldn't even gaze at from a distance. Yet like a dream, it carried him… a duke!
'From forgotten baron to the White Wolf of the north,' Asher mused.
And yet…
