The third day of their journey drew them deeper into the heart of Eastmarch. The vast, monotonous grasslands began to roll, transforming into a series of low hills whose ridges were blanketed by dense, dark pine forests. The air here felt warmer than the frigid atmosphere of Northreach, yet it still held enough of a bite to turn their breath into white puffs of mist with every word spoken.
Roland sat inside the swaying carriage, his legs crossed in a relaxed posture. A small, leather-bound notebook rested on his lap, its pages already half-filled. His fingers moved rhythmically, scratching ink onto the yellowish parchment. Occasionally, he would pause, drawing in the cold air that drifted through the window, and stare at the horizon before returning to his writing.
"Writing a letter?" Rianor's voice cut through the silence. He didn't look up from the crystal tablet in his hands.
"Just travel notes. They might come in handy later," Roland replied without turning.
"For whom?"
