The party drove the carriage until they reached the gates of the border city of Astra. The horizon had tilted into a wash of early morning light by the time the walls came into clear view, rising tall and aged, cut from stone darker than the earth it sprouted from. Their edges bore the cracks of countless seasons, but no wear in vigilance. Flags fluttered above, emblems of the Empire stitched in threads that caught what little wind dared pass between the battlements.
Several other carriages were already waiting, pulled off into dusty rows near the outer causeway. Their wheels sunk slightly in the dry, beaten road. Merchants and guards, pilgrims and farmers all waited together in varied degrees of patience or irritation. The atmosphere carried the restless hush of lines and thresholds. Horses snorted. Axles creaked. Somewhere behind them, a child wept in exhaustion and heat.
