The night was longer than it had any right to be.
The inside of the carriage had grown quiet again, but not restful. Not truly. The tremor from the earlier strike still lingered in the walls, in the groaning wood and the hairline cracks running down the gilded frames of the windows. Whatever runes had kept the interior stable now pulsed erratically, flickering in the corners like nervous thoughts. Each bounce of the wheels sent a muted shudder through the planks beneath their feet.
Gorak hadn't moved from his crouch, one hand still pressed against the side as if expecting the walls to split open again. Melisande was still curled around Redd's broken form, her cloak pulled over both their bodies like a failed shield. Timur sat low across from them, legs drawn up, arms wrapped around his sheathed blade. He didn't sleep. None of them did.
