The rhythmic, labored thumping of the stolen logistics carriage's steam engine sounded like the dying groans of a titanium giant. Each shuddering vibration rattled the wooden frame of the cabin, threatening to shake the very bolts loose from their rusted moorings. Outside, the world was a blur of hostile, vertical geometry. The lush, suffocating darkness of the Wailing Woods had finally begun to recede, replaced by the jagged, ash-gray silhouettes of the Terragard Peaks piercing the sky like the teeth of a dragon.
Kancil white-knuckled the steering levers, his small, soot-stained frame jolting with every bump in the uneven mountain path. The air had turned razor-sharp, carrying the scent of ancient, frozen stone and the metallic tang of an oncoming blizzard.
