The wind screamed like a banshee through the narrow gorge, tugging at cloaks, hoods, and hair, and shoving rain in horizontal sheets against the two riders hurtling across the stone bridge.
The wheels of the carriage clattered over slick, uneven stones, each bounce a test of balance. Vartha's paws slapped hard against the rain-slicked surface, claws gripping as best they could while the tiger strained forward, her muscles burning with every stride. The tension was immediate, bone-deep. There was no time to breathe, no space to think. There was only the pounding of hooves—no, paws—and the deafening crash of water not beneath them but coming for them.
Behind them, it loomed.
A dark, surging wall of nature's wrath—an unholy mix of uprooted trees, churned sludge, and frothing riverwater that swelled higher with every heartbeat. What began as a low rumble now grew into a monstrous bellow, echoing beneath the bridge like a god's fury awakened.
