Hymn of Hope

The road stretched ahead like a scar carved into the land—rutted, winding, framed by crooked trees still blackened at their roots by distant fire. Our horse car, an enclosed, creaking wooden carriage known as a Gladerunner—named for how its broad wheels were built to glide over forested terrain—swayed gently as it rolled across uneven ground.

Inside, the scent of clean leather mixed with the faint, smoky smell of old soot and iron. I sat between Seraph and Elara on the padded bench, my side pressed lightly against theirs.

It was a strange sort of comfort, being here. Not entirely easy, not entirely safe. My body still ached, bruised and wrapped in tight bandages beneath my tunic.

I moved stiffly, not out of pride like Valtor, but out of caution. A pull in the wrong place still felt like fire.

Elara's fingers reached for mine.