It had been three days since the wedding at Jernheim. The festivities if one could call a feast of roasted turnips and contract negotiations "festive" had faded into the grinding reality of the march.
There were no romantic carriage rides through flower-filled meadows. Instead, there was the "Command Wagon," a reinforced cart with iron-rimmed wheels that rattled enough to loosen teeth. Inside sat the newlyweds: Ragnar, the Director of Industry, and Gyda, the Mistress of the Ledger.
"This suspension is terrible," Ragnar muttered, trying to sketch a schematic while bouncing violently. "I need to invent leaf springs. Or rubber tires. My spine feels like it's being compressed by a hydraulic press."
Gyda didn't look up from her scroll. She was calmly tallying the inventory of Saltpeter.
"Complaining is inefficient, Husband," she said dryly. "Besides, this is the most time we've spent together without you running off to pet a furnace. Consider it romantic."
