[Location: The Southern Trade Route – Border of the Dwarven Kingdom]
The scene goes back to the surface, and even without Damiens intervention, the wheels of fate had begun to turn,
Saying their last farewells, Alaric and the others were currently on their way to get the sword of heroes to deal with the upcoming danger
The wheels of the merchant wagon squeaked with a rhythmic, grating sound that seemed to echo too loudly in the quiet valley.
It was a nondescript vehicle, a canvas-covered transport pulled by two sturdy, brown dust-horses.
It looked like thousands of other wagons traveling the trade routes: worn, dusty, and utterly forgettable.
There were no royal crests. No magical suspensions. No Fenrir engine roaring in the distance.
Inside the wagon, huddled under the canvas shade, Elena pulled her coarse woolen hood lower. She scratched at the side of her head.
"I hate this," she whispered, adjusting the thick headscarf she wore beneath the hood.
"It itches."
