The heavy wooden wheels of the cart had barely cleared the shadow of the threshold before a sharp, deafening clash of iron rang out.
A wall of black steel and dark crimson cloaks surged forward, closing off the archway in a seamless, lethal line.
Pikes were lowered with practiced, synchronized precision, the gleam of cold iron points hovering mere inches from Karl's chest.
The sudden, jarring halt made the wooden cart creak violently.
In the back, beneath the filthy wool blanket, the last lingering threads of the nightshade potion finally broke.
For the first time in fourteen agonizing days, Eiravyne didn't immediately fall back into darkness.
Slowly, her weak, trembling arms pushed against the damp straw, and she sat up.
The heavy cowl fell away from her face, revealing her hair and hollow cheeks. Her blue eyes, still heavy with the haze of sedatives, blinked against the dreary, slate-grey light of Quastrax.
She turned her head, looking around with a slow, haunting awe.
