The next morning, Kyle departed early with Bruce and Melissa at his side, heading toward the nameless village that Bruce had scouted the night before.
Their carriage rolled out of the estate gates at dawn, cutting through the mist-covered countryside like a shadow with purpose.
For the first half of the journey, the roads were relatively smooth, lined by sparse woodlands and the occasional farmhouse.
But the further they moved from noble lands and deeper into forgotten territory, the worse the roads became.
Patches of uneven dirt soon turned into muddy stretches. Twisted roots cracked through the soil.
Even the air felt heavier, denser, as if the land itself had been left to rot and fester.
Eventually, the road all but vanished beneath them.
The carriage jolted harshly, wheels sinking into a sloped patch of mud.
The horses whinnied and pulled back, resisting the incline. The carriage groaned in protest, and the driver hastily pulled the reins, coming to a stop.
