CHAPTER 147: THE CONVOY

Jonas staggered back under the weight of the replacement axle. The wood was massive, cracked in several places, clearly patched together in a hurry. He let it drop into the dust with a cloud of splinters.

"Damn thing weighs a ton," he panted. "And it’s warped. This won’t hold."

"It’ll hold till Martissant," grumbled the bearded man. His hand absentmindedly tapped the handle of his axe. "Otherwise... we’ll find a nice hole to die in."

Dylan crouched near the shattered wheel. His fingers traced the fractures, the torn-out bolts. Not an expert, but he understood the logic of broken things.

"We need to lift the back," he said to Maggie.

She nodded briskly and moved into position, hands set firmly on the sun-worn wood.

One... two... three...

They pulled. The cart groaned. Dylan’s muscles bulged beneath his sweaty skin.

"Elisa! The block!"

Without waiting, Elisa used a chunk of rock she’d already lined up in her field of vision, sliding it under the remaining axle. She controlled her breath, not spending more essence than necessary, saving her focus for the moment it would truly be needed.

Marisse watched without letting go of the reins. The suspicion in her gaze had faded, replaced by a hollow weariness.

"You’re not messing around, are you," she muttered.

Jonas snorted. "Yeah. Not like those ghouls who were tailing us last week."

Maggie, arms trembling from the effort, kept her eyes on the joint.

"You? What are you running from?"

The bearded man spat into the dust.

"Better ask who. The governor of Hanale." He chewed his words. "Declared himself a god. Started with animal sacrifices... now he wants people."

Elisa lifted her chin.

"An Awakened?"

"No." Jonas shook his head. "A lunatic. His son hanged himself. Now he talks to the fire." His voice dropped into a rasp. "And the fire talks back. Always."

CLANG. The replacement axle slotted into place. Poorly, but it held.

Marisse checked a strap. "Martissant’s no paradise, mind you. But at least the crazies aren’t organized. And the bread’s still edible."

Elisa and Dylan exchanged a look. Quick. Blunt.

"We’re not here for the bread," Dylan growled, wiping his hands on his pants.

Marisse gave a tired smile.

"Shame. Aunt Edna’s buttered bread could calm the Devil himself."

"Once we get there, you can stop in," said Marisse, tightening a leather buckle. Her eyes slid over Maggie, then Elisa, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "It’s one of the rare places you can get a hot bath... without breaking the bank."

Maggie barely shrugged, her hardened gaze locked on the horizon, as if the idea of a bath belonged to another life. Elisa didn’t answer either, her eyes narrowing slightly, calculating how much essence she could afford to spend on relaxation without becoming vulnerable.

But Dylan... Dylan stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes widened like a child promised an ice cream mountain in the middle of a heatwave.

"A hot... bath?"

He blinked, grey eyes shining with a temporarily reborn innocence.

"With... soap?" he dared.

Marisse chuckled. "The real kind. Not that piss-and-ash stuff from the northern cantons. A proper saffron soap bar."

Dylan nearly swooned.

He slowly lifted his eyes to the sky, as if some higher power had finally answered his prayers.

"I... I’m gonna cry."

Maggie raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You smell, sure. But not enough to make it a spiritual matter."

Elisa, the hint of a smile at the corner of her lips, turned slightly toward him:

"You know if you cry now, you’ll probably dehydrate and die, right?"

But Dylan wasn’t listening anymore.

He had projected himself—already chest-deep in steaming water, grime curling off his skin in grey swirls, the heat sinking into his tired bones. And silence. A normal, human silence. Not one full of dead whispers.

He slowly came back to the present, meeting the bearded man’s gaze—the man looked at him like he’d just caught someone kissing a cactus.

Dylan cleared his throat and tried to look composed.

"Anyway. Let’s go."

Maggie, deadpan:

"And the first one to mention the bath again—I’ll drown them in it."

They laughed a little. A little too loudly. A little too quickly for people who had just met. But it was that, or let the silence come back.

And no one wanted to hear what that silence had to say.

The wheels groaned lowly as the cart started moving again.

The wood creaked with strain, each turn of the wheels scraping against the hot dust like the earth itself was trying to hold them back. But still it moved. Slowly, like an old, wounded beast, dragged by two hollow-flanked horses foaming at the lips.

Maggie led at the front, slightly to the left. Her left hand held her chain weapon—not drawn, but visible. She didn’t speak, eyes locked on the horizon, but her ears caught every groan of the wood, every neigh, every stone displaced behind her.

Elisa walked at the rear. Silent, still barefoot despite the heat, her lance resting on her shoulder like a weightless scale. The air around her barely pulsed, a quiet signal that her essence was still vigilant, ready to react. She was conserving it, but she wasn’t defenseless.

Dylan had found his place at the back of the cart, one leg dangling. He watched the sky, palms on his thighs, gray hair clinging to his forehead. From time to time, he glanced at Marisse, who held the reins with the ease of someone who’s fled more than they’ve ever traveled.

"You think it’ll really hold?" he asked, casting a glance at the patched-up wheel.

"Till it breaks," she replied, without looking at him.

Inside, Jonas tried to stabilize the crates that kept sliding with every jolt. He muttered into his nonexistent beard, cursing short nails, cursed roads, and gods who didn’t know how to build a decent plain.

The bearded man walked beside the lead horse, one hand on the beast’s flank, the other resting on the hilt of his halberd like a man petting an old loyal dog.

"We’ll be in Martissant in two days—if nothing falls on us," he said, not turning around.

"Ah," Elisa sighed, without irony. "So that gives us two days for everything to go to hell."

Then Dylan, with a dry smile:

"But at least we’ll be warm when it happens."

Marisse chuckled. Tired, but sincere.

And in the middle of nowhere, in this empty expanse, the convoy rolled on.