The evening skies had begun their gentle shift, bleeding soft oranges and streaks of purple across the horizon. The sun dipped low, its golden rays stretching far as if reluctant to part from the world just yet. Shadows of trees and hills elongated with every passing minute, and a cool breeze began to replace the heat of the day.
The carriage wheels turned steadily on the packed dirt path, humming a rhythmic lullaby as they pressed forward. Luke held the reins with a relaxed grip, allowing the tiger—Vartha—to carry them at a calm, measured pace. Her gait was confident and unfazed, as if she herself had travelled this route before.
Ilyrana, seated beside him now, had drawn her cloak tighter, her elven eyes scanning the fading road ahead. "We should be close," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the wind.
