Through the Mist, Under Watchful Eyes

The caravan rolled onward, each wooden wheel protesting with a groan as it rolled over uneven cobblestone. The hush in the air was almost suffocating, and Mikhailis suppressed the urge to crack a joke—Vyrelda's expression was grim enough already. He could sense the tension in her posture; she sat straight, one hand resting on her thigh near the hilt of her sword. Even in the dim morning light and the swirling mist, her figure conveyed unwavering vigilance.

He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wagon's side. Feels like we're riding through a ghost town.