The convoy set off once more.
On this grand road paved with luminescent moss and smooth white stone, the new yet rather plain black carriages of the delegation from the Duchy of Tidewater seemed utterly out of place.
There was no mud, no charred wood from the ravages of war—there was even a cloying, sickly sweet floral scent permeating the air.
The carriage curtain was abruptly pulled open by a hand in a lace glove.
Caroline stuck her head out and glanced back.
The oppressive dark clouds of the Ironwood Line had long since vanished beyond the horizon, replaced by even more novel sights.
Giant ferns snaked along both sides of the road, and occasionally, an unknown bird with a rainbow-feathered tail would flit overhead.
"No matter how many times I check, that direction is north."
Caroline pulled back into the carriage, irritably tapping a folded fan against her palm.
