Ren walked steadily, each step heavy as he dragged the rickety wagon behind him.
The wooden wheels creaked with every rotation, one of them groaning as if it might snap at any moment. The entire thing looked like it was held together by prayer and willpower.
They'd found it half-buried under debris on the outskirts of Rainhold, one of the few salvageable remnants from the city's destruction.
And now it carried Thorn, unconscious and bundled in spare cloaks, resting in the wagon bed like a wounded knight in a funeral cart.
Smoke still drifted above on the far horizon behind them, casting a dull gray smear across the early morning sky. The sun had risen a while ago, but its rays did little to pierce the grief-heavy silence that hung over them.
The only sounds around them were the crunch of boots on dirt, the occasional groan of the wagon, and the whistle of wind brushing against broken hills and burnt trees.
Ren clenched the wagon's handle tighter and kept walking.
