The palace guard's definition of 'prepare' is to have all of us purebloods rounded up like a horde of slaves, and packed into a bullock wagon, pulled by oxen. An imperial carriage from the palace follows behind us. And the full Avangard squadron tails them.
I stifle a groan.
Descending from the palace down to the city, the wagon rocks destructively from side to side. Each jolt sends tremors through its creaking frame, making the iron-bound wheels groan against the uneven path. The road is gravelly, rock-strewn, but it seems that everything might fall off its hinges at any given moment, stirring an acquainted nausea in my stomach.
Is it possible to be lightheaded but still feel like your head weighs a ton?
"So, my fellow candidates," Brennon exclaims over the clangor of hooves and rolling stones. "While we despise each other's existence. Does anyone have any last words they wish to share as we are being shuttled to our deaths?"