The carriage rolled steadily eastward, its wheels crushing the gravel of the dirt road with a rhythmic crunch-thud. The landscape on either side began to transform; the dense, uniform rows of Northreach pines were slowly replaced by broad-leaved trees with shorter, bushier branches. The breeze drifting through the window no longer carried the bite of ice, but rather a warm caress scented with fertile soil. Eastmarch felt different—the air was kinder, welcoming travelers with open arms.
Rianor sat upright, his notebook sprawled open on his lap. His quill danced across the pages, recording data in incredibly neat, disciplined script. Occasionally, he would pause to adjust his spectacles and gaze at the horizon before immersing himself back into his writing. Across from him, Roland leaned his head against the wooden wall of the carriage. His eyes were closed, yet his ears remained attuned to every sound around him—he was savoring a rare moment of stillness.
