Lancet walked past a group of merchants arguing over shipping fees, past a pair of Kingdom Rangers checking the seals on a supply crate, past a weather-beaten sign that read LEAVING BASTION TERRITORY in three languages.
The air changed as he went. Less filtered. Less controlled. The wind carried scents of dry earth and distant smoke, and the road began to show its age in cracks and patches.
Lancet knew the math. Whatever mountain Kestrel had in mind, it was not close. If he tried to walk, he would burn through his three days just getting there, and the tournament deadline would pass him by while he was still sweating on some nameless trail with nothing to show for it but blisters.
He needed transport.
Fortunately, the people of this world were not stupid. The "taxi" drivers of the borderlands had learned generations ago that the best place to park was exactly where the roads ran out of bastion jurisdiction and people started looking desperately for a ride.
