The two rode in near silence, the hooves of their warhorses thudding rhythmically against the packed dirt of the old trade road, echoing in the valleys between the craggy slopes and golden seas of wheat. The air was thinner here, high in the mountain passes, but not unpleasant, crisp and touched with the earthy scent of pine and wind-scattered pollen. The sky overhead was a faded canvas of late afternoon, clouds drifting lazily like half-formed thoughts.
Neither Ludwig nor Celine spoke much as the terrain gradually shifted, what had been jagged ridgelines softened into sloping hills, the dense patches of fir trees giving way to sprawling farmland and broken stone fences. The road widened, ruts carved deep by the weight of merchant wagons, though none passed them this day. As the first outline of Rasta came into view, its gray stone walls faint on the horizon like a memory surfacing, Ludwig tugged gently on the reins, his mount slowing to a halt with a heavy exhale.
