The sun blazed in the morning, scorching through the foliage of a forest that felt too quiet to be safe. There was no birdsong here. Even the wind was fearful as three horses rode down the twisting path, hooves crunching over soggy leaves.
Luther rode the middle horse, cape flying over the saddle as he hunched forward like a man heading to his own funeral. Guards marched beside and behind him, one as quiet as stone.
Luther sighed loudly, hoping someone would answer. No one did.
"Tell me again," he slurred, "why we're wasting good daylight going for a scenic horse ride when we could be doing literally anything else? Napping? Eating breakfast? Combustion by self-immolation? All of which would be preferable to this."
The front guard grunted, but kept his eyes fixed on the path. The back one shrugged as forcefully as he could, as if to say: Don't look at me, I'm here only so I won't get my head chopped off.
