The air was thick with tension as the battered remnants of the caravan trudged forward. The constant attacks had worn everyone down—morale was low, supplies were scarce, and exhaustion clung to each survivor like a heavy cloak. The once mighty convoy of seven wagons and twenty guards had been reduced to three wagons and seven weary fighters. Yet, the main merchandise that Garret, the caravan master, had sworn to protect remained intact. That, at least, was a small victory.
Kain wiped the sweat from his brow, his grip firm on the handle of his hammer. He had barely slept, standing watch through most of the night to ensure there were no further ambushes. Talor sat beside him, sharpening his daggers with slow, deliberate strokes. Neither spoke much—there was little to say that hadn't already been voiced. They were running on fumes, but turning back wasn't an option.
