The early morning mist on Anvia was as thick as cold gray cotton, swallowing the remnants of a delicate civilization that had faded into the past. A few faint streaks of starlight still lingered in the sky, but the pulse of life in the central district was already beginning to stir.
The wooden pushcart let out heavy creaks as it ground against the rough cobblestone street. This was the very cart usually hitched to the ox, but the route to the West Market was quite crowded. Driving an oxcart into the bazaar was inconvenient, so they left the beast in the tavern's backyard and simply pushed the cart.
