Dawn hadn't quite broken.
It had more or less seeped in—pale and lukewarm, like a breath of warm milk over a badly healed wound. The sky, rinsed clean of stars, brightened into a dirty gray, still stained by the shadows of the night. But the cart was already moving.
The wheels creaked at regular intervals, and every bump tore a groan or a curse from Jonas, wedged in the back, still half-asleep despite the jolts. Up front, Marisse held the reins with a steady hand, her other wrapped in her threadbare cloak, eyes fixed on the hazy horizon where the mountains of Martissant rose like cinder-teeth.
Dylan dozed, slumped against a canvas sack, legs dangling off the side. At every jolt, he muttered half-coherently:
"Still not over that stew…"
