The South Gate of Grey-Rock was a maw of iron and weeping stone, choked with the frantic energy of a doomed migration.
Thick plumes of dust kicked up by heavy, reinforced wagon wheels swirled into the air, mixing with the acrid scent of nervous horses and the metallic tang of unsheathed steel. This wasn't a caravan; it was a fortress on wheels. Six massive wagons, armored with plates of cold-iron and etched with flickering protective runes, sat like squat beetles in the center of a hollow square formed by nearly fifty mercenaries.
Aden walked into the center of the chaos, his hood pulled low. Behind him, the three boys moved in a tight, silent formation, their eyes darting between the towering armored carriages and the scarred veterans who looked at them with a mixture of pity and irritation. Lorelei drifted at the rear, her spectral form so thin she appeared as nothing more than a trick of the heat haze, yet her presence was a cold anchor in the sweltering noon.
