Two days after leaving the cold embers of their Eastmarch campfire, the landscape began to surrender.
The endless prairies gave way to coastal scrub—low, stiff-leaved plants with roots that clawed at the sandy soil like thirsty talons. Trees grew sparse, leaving behind limestone outcroppings that jutted from the earth like the missing teeth of giants. Even the air had turned. The wind, which had once carried only dry dust, now bore something new. Sharp, fresh, and slightly stinging.
Salt.
Rianor breathed in the air deeply before his eyes could even catch the horizon. "The sea is close," he murmured from the open carriage window.
Across from him, Roland—who had been buried in his ledger—looked up. "Huh? You're serious? I can't even see the coast yet."
