Creeeak... groan...
The wooden wheels of their carriage ground against the stone road that cut a straight line due south. As the distance between them and Whitebridge grew, the rolling golden grasslands were gradually swept away, replaced by monolithic fields of wheat. The green crops towered high, arranged in rows that were unnervingly straight—far too precise for natural growth. In the distance, white stone windmills turned at a sluggish pace. Swoosh... swoosh... they channeled water into an irrigation network that gleamed blindingly under the morning sun.
Inside the carriage cabin, Roland sat tapping Pastor Elias's sealed scroll against his thigh. The parchment remained tightly bound by red wax. He had already read its contents three times over—not to digest the words, but merely to ground himself, knowing this small roll of paper was the only thing making their lives legal in this land of fanatics.
