The horse plodded on, all night without rest, hooves muffled by pine needles and soft earth. Byung swayed in the saddle, half-dead with exhaustion. Every muscle burned. His eyes kept sliding shut despite the cold wind that slapped his face. All night they had ridden—no real rest, no safe camp—only the steady rhythm of the horse and the quiet strength of Maui in front of him.
Maui handled everything. She held the reins in one huge green hand, guiding the tired animal along hidden trails she seemed to memorize by instinct. Her other arm stayed wrapped protectively around Byung's waist, keeping him from falling.
Murkfang remained unconscious but it was Byung who was tucked inside her chest, hidden beneath layers of leather and cloak. The sick goblin's fevered breathing was the only sound besides the creak of saddle leather and the soft thud of hooves.
