The dying sun cast long shadows across the dusty plains of Kahjin Province as Ryan, perched awkwardly on the back of the horse, and Cecil, her face pale with exhaustion, rode out of the castle gates. The air still smelled of hints of metal, blood, and ice dust, scarce but visible, floated around, a reminder of the carnage they'd left behind.
Ryan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He wasn't built for horseback riding. His legs, used to the agility of ground combat, felt cramped and out of place. He gripped the pommel of the saddle with white knuckles, his fingers protesting against the unfamiliar pressure.
"Relax," Cecil's voice came from ahead, laced with a hint of amusement. "You'll spook the horse if you death-grip the saddle like that."
