Chapter 149: Smell of Bread
Dawn hadn’t quite broken.
It had more or less seeped in—pale and lukewarm, like a breath of warm milk over a badly healed wound. The sky, rinsed clean of stars, brightened into a dirty gray, still stained by the shadows of the night. But the cart was already moving.
The wheels creaked at regular intervals, and every bump tore a groan or a curse from Jonas, wedged in the back, still half-asleep despite the jolts. Up front, Marisse held the reins with a steady hand, her other wrapped in her threadbare cloak, eyes fixed on the hazy horizon where the mountains of Martissant rose like cinder-teeth.
Dylan dozed, slumped against a canvas sack, legs dangling off the side. At every jolt, he muttered half-coherently:
"Still not over that stew..."
"That’s ’cause you ate like a dog on cocaine," Maggie growled beside him, adjusting the strap of her pack. She was walking a fair distance from the rear wheel, scanning the surroundings with a gaze still foggy with sleep—but sharp. Her crossed arms screamed "no conversation before noon."
Élisa brought up the rear. Barefoot as always, her spear resting against her shoulder, she watched the dust kicked up by the convoy like it carried omens.
She didn’t speak much.
But every now and then, she tilted her head, as if something—somewhere—was calling her.
The bearded man—still as mute as he was massive—was leading the way today. His halberd dragged slightly behind him, scraping the ground with the sound of restrained alertness. He said nothing, but his back said it all: tight, ready, wired. The kind of man who relaxed only when the screaming started—not when it stopped.
A gust swept by, carrying with it the fading scent of last night’s fire—some ash, and maybe... something else.