The chariot cut through the open sky like a whisper, and nobody inside it had any idea where they were actually going. That was Azrail's doing, of course.
He sat with his back comfortably against the seat, one hand occupied by Valencia's fingers, the other currently surviving the iron grip of Xuanyin, who had not let go since the moment they had taken off. Outside the wide glass panels, the landscape below was shifting from the familiar stone architecture of Royal Empire territory into something broader and wilder, the farmlands thinning out and giving way to rolling forests and river lines that caught the light like scattered silver thread.
The chariot hummed faintly under them, a steady vibration that Azrail had grown used to over the hours, but it was clear from the way Xuanyin's fingers dug in that she hadn't quite adjusted yet. Her grip wasn't painful, just insistent, like she needed the contact to ground herself amid the endless drop below.
