The road to the capital wrought like a grey ribbon around the base of the hill before stretching out across the blooming plains, a long, straight stroke of stone against the vibrant green of the basin.
He had reached he Magna Strata half a week ago, and from there, the track had become easier, the terrain surrendering to his frantic pace. He had ridden three horses into a state of lathered exhaustion, skipping through two relay stations and pushing the third beast until its breath came in wet, whistling sobs.
Yesterday, it had snowed, a light, brief dusting that settled over the earth like a widow's veil. It was a freak occurrence; in Yarzat, the sky was known for its warmth and its seas during winter for storms, never for its ice.
He had taken the white blanket as a cold, gloomy omen. But now, as his horse thundered down the final stretch, the gloom melted away just as the snow had, leaving only mud in tracks.Though not on the road, the stone was too hard for the mud.
