The wheels of the stolen carriage didn't just roll; they screamed. Every time the iron rims struck the uneven, jagged granite of the Industrial Sector's streets, sparks erupted like tiny, dying stars in the darkness. The carriage rattled violently, a skeletal cage of wood and metal that threatened to disintegrate at any moment.
Dayat gripped the leather reins with his left hand, his fingers white-knuckled and trembling. His right arm, the one whose shoulder had just been violently reset in a dark alley, hung like dead weight at his side. Every jolt of the carriage sent a white-hot spike of agony through his nerves, turning his vision into a blurry, colorless haze for heart-pounding seconds.
