The carriage rolled through the golden morning light.
It was a simple thing. Wooden. Four wheels. A canvas top stretched over bent poles. Two draft horses pulled it along the dirt road that wound through the hills toward the capital. The old man drove them. His name was Garret. He had white hair, a crooked back, and hands like leather. He had been hired at the village inn. He did not ask questions. He was paid in gold. That was enough.
Inside, the pregnant woman sat against the side wall. Her belly was round. Tight. She wore a loose dress that barely contained her heavy tits. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric. She was smiling. Her dark circles were still there, but her face was softer now. Happier. She held a bundle of wildflowers in her lap. She hummed.
Beside her, the boy sat cross-legged. He was drawing in the dirt on the floorboard with a stick. He drew a horse. Then a sword. Then a circle that he said was the sun.
