Time Remaining: 37 Days, 10 Hours. Location: The Borderlands (10 Miles West of Capital).
The Iron Horse didn't drive. It convulsed.
Ten miles of off-road travel had turned the interior of the vehicle into a convection oven mixed with a paint shaker. The suspension—stiff Mithril leaf-springs designed for hauling cargo, not people—slammed into every rock, sending a jolt straight up Arthur's spine and rattling his teeth in his skull.
The cabin temperature was pushing 40°C. It smelled of hot oil, ozone, and unwashed teenagers.
"I'm going to throw up," Julian groaned from the sniper nest, a small padded cage welded near the roof hatch. "I am a noble. My inner ear is calibrated for smooth carriages, not... this washing machine."
"Swallow it," Arthur shouted over the deafening roar of the engine. He didn't take his eyes off the terrain. "Vomit is acidic. It'll corrode the leather upholstery, and I don't have spare cows to fix it."
