They kept riding, hour after hour folding into one another, the land changing slowly beneath their hooves while the tension never truly eased. Dust turned to stone, stone to cracked earth, and sometimes to stretches of silence so complete that Lucas could hear his own breathing beneath the mask. Each time the terrain shifted or the air carried a strange scent, he would lift a hand and slow the squad, his eyes scanning ahead while his senses reached farther than sight alone.
"Stanley," Lucas said more than once, turning slightly in the saddle, "take this back to the king and do not embellish it."
