The carriage kept bumping along like it was trying to rock someone to sleep, but for Cherion, it felt less "soothing lullaby" and more "trapped inside a giant, obnoxious drum."
He sat stiffly against the velvet seat, staring out the window as charcoal-gray pines and bare, skeletal birches blurred past. Physically, yeah, he was there. He could feel the cold air sneaking in through the door, could smell the mix of old leather and Zarius's distinct, bracing musk. Yet, mentally? Not even close. He was miles back, still standing in that cramped, stinking hut where the air tasted of damp dirt and old secrets.
Traveler.
The word wouldn't leave him alone. It buzzed in his head like a mosquito you couldn't slap. It wasn't just a word, it felt like a judgment. That old woman had looked straight through him. Not at "Cherion," but at whatever the hell was underneath. And that whole "unbinding the world" thing? Yeah. That part was not helping.
