Owain's carriage hadn't moved in nearly a quarter of an hour, and his patience was a fraying rope that wouldn't hold much longer.
He sat with his back pressed against the padded bench, his arms folded across the blue sash on his chest, and his jaw clenched tight enough that he could feel the muscles in his temples throbbing with each heartbeat. The curtains of the carriage were drawn; he'd closed them himself after the third time a child had scampered past the guards to try to glimpse the heroic demon-slayer, and the only light that reached him was the fading amber glow of the setting sun filtering through the heavy fabric.
Setting. The sun was already setting, and he was trapped in a broken carriage like a merchant whose cart had thrown an axle on a country road.
