The day's ride was unnervingly quiet.
No, howling winds hissed across the fields. No stray insects buzzed in the air. Even the tigers, usually rumbling with low growls and snorts, moved with a surprising stillness. The caravan rode like a ghost procession—silent wheels, rhythmic pawsteps, muffled breaths.
It wasn't peace.
It was something else.
Luke sat near the rear of the chariot, resting his elbow on the edge as he absently watched the landscape crawl by. The skies above were pale, almost colourless, with faint streaks of clouds stretching like worn parchment. There was no sense of movement, no birds, no rustling—just an eerie hush.
His thoughts drifted back to Virencia, to Saint Cynthia, to what she had told him… and what she hadn't. But the longer he stared into the silence, the more something gnawed at him like the world was holding its breath.
"Uh, Luke!" Boros called out suddenly from the front, breaking the stillness. "Commander Valerie wants a word!"
