The winter sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the frost-hardened road as a modest caravan approached the village of Maeril. At its head rode a solitary knight, his armor gleaming dully beneath a travel-stained cloak while his breath misted in the cold air. Behind him, three covered wagons creaked and groaned under their loads, their wheels cutting fresh ruts through the frozen mud. A single modest carriage brought up the rear, its curtains drawn against the chill, pulled by a matched pair of sturdy draft horses.
To anyone watching from the village walls, it would appear to be nothing more than a merchant's convoy, perhaps bringing winter supplies or trade goods from one of the Hanrahan villages to the south. Nothing remarkable. Nothing threatening.
Nothing that would suggest the Mother of Trees herself was riding in that nondescript carriage, approaching the village that was supposed to have been the site of her final confrontation with Owain Lothian.
