Chapter 14 — The Cart Road

  (Crimson — First Person)

  The cart creaked in a steady rhythm that eventually replaced thought.

  Wood against wood. Wheel against stone. Harness leather shifting with each pull of the horse’s shoulders. Not loud enough to irritate. Not soft enough to ignore.

  Just enough… to exist.

  I sat in the back with my boots braced against a crate of bundled grain and my cloak folded beneath me to soften the boards. The wood was warm from the sun. Not hot. Just enough to press through fabric and settle into skin.

  Blade walked ahead of the cart.

  His cloak was worn thin at the edges. The helmet caught the light where the metal had been scraped dull. His sword rode low at his back, leather darkened from years of use.

  He hadn’t suggested the cart.

  The farmer had been heading west with empty space and a tired horse. Blade had stepped aside with him for less than a minute—coin exchanged, a nod given—and the next thing I knew I was climbing into the back.

  No argument.No explanation.

  I hadn’t argued.

  We had been on foot since Belgris. Through two small villages that barely looked up as we passed. I sat only at night, when the fire burned low and the ground decided whether it would be stone or dirt.

  And now I sat in daylight.

  The road stretched forward in long pale lines between fields that had already turned for the season. Gold pressed low under the wind. Dry stalks leaned in one direction as if something had smoothed them there by hand.

  Mountains cut the horizon in uneven shapes, their tops holding thin streaks of white. Not snow enough to matter. Just warning.

  I watched the line where the sky met the ridge until the shape blurred.

  The cart dipped into a shallow rut. The boards shifted under me. My hand reached automatically for balance, fingers curling around the side rail.

  I waited for the next dip.

  It came.

  Then another.

  Predictable.

  The horse snorted once, ears flicking back and forward again. The driver murmured something I didn’t catch. Blade didn’t turn.

  A fence line slid past on the right, stones stacked without symmetry, just weight and patience holding them upright. Beyond it, two children ran through a patch of dirt, chasing something small and brown that might have been a chicken. One tripped. The other laughed.

  The sound didn’t carry far.

  I found myself watching them until the cart moved beyond the field.

  The boards beneath me shifted again. Not rough. Just movement.

  There were scarecrows in the next stretch. Three of them. Each shaped differently. One had a hat that leaned too far left. Another had sleeves stuffed unevenly, one arm longer than the other. The third had no head at all, just a pole and cloth wrapped around it like a forgotten thought.

  I kept looking until they disappeared behind us.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  The wind moved through the fields in long waves. It wasn’t the violent kind that snapped branches or tore cloth. It bent the grain low and let it rise again. Bent and rise. Bent and rise.

  I hadn’t realized how long I’d been watching it until the sound changed.

  The creaking stopped.

  Not abruptly.

  It simply… wasn’t there.

  The horse snorted again. The harness leather shifted once more and went still.

  I blinked and looked down at my hands.

  The cart wasn’t moving.

  I hadn’t felt it slow.

  I leaned slightly to the side, peering over the rail.

  Blade stood near the front wheel, crouched. The driver had stepped away to the roadside ditch, checking something in the grass. Blade’s hand ran along the rim of the wheel, fingers pressing lightly against the wood.

  He didn’t look up.

  The silence felt different without motion.

  Not heavy. Just clearer.

  I swung one leg over the side of the cart before thinking about it.

  The ground wasn’t far. I could step down easily. The motion was already halfway finished when Blade spoke.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Flat. Unhurried.

  I paused, one boot hovering over open air.

  He didn’t look at me. He didn’t straighten. His fingers adjusted a leather strap near the axle, tugged once, then twice.

  “I can—”

  The word thinned out in the air.

  Blade’s fingers hooked under the loose leather strap near the axle. He pulled once. The buckle scraped against metal. He adjusted it by half a notch and tested the wheel with a firm press of his shoulder.

  The driver clicked his tongue and eased the horse forward a step.

  The cart shifted. Wood complained. The wheel turned a fraction, then another.

  Blade kept his weight against it, watching the rim, not me.

  The rocking stopped.

  He straightened and gave the side panel one flat knock with his knuckles.

  “All set.”

  I remained half-turned for a second longer, then drew my leg back inside the cart and sat down again.

  The boards still held heat.

  Blade walked ahead as he had before, one hand resting near the back of the cart as if measuring its movement without needing to look.

  The horse started forward.

  The creak returned.

  Wheel against stone. Harness leather shifting. Wood settling into rhythm.

  I leaned back against the crate.

  The fields resumed their slow bending.

  A patch of wildflowers grew along the edge of the road ahead—small, purple, barely tall enough to survive the dust. The cart rolled past them without crushing any.

  A thin stream cut across the road farther ahead. The driver slowed the horse this time, careful over the stones. The water glinted briefly in the sun before slipping under shadow again.

  I didn’t reach for the side rail when we crossed it.

  The mountains had shifted closer without my noticing. Their edges were clearer now. Not sharp—just less distant.

  I let my gaze trace the line of the ridge.

  Blade adjusted his pace slightly to match the cart, not slowing it, just aligning with it. His shadow moved beside the wheel.

  Nothing pressed back.

  Just road.

  A dog barked from somewhere beyond the next field. It ran along the fence line parallel to us for a few seconds, then lost interest and turned away.

  I watched until it disappeared behind a barn.

  The cart dipped again into a shallow rut. I let it.

  My shoulders had lowered at some point. I only noticed because I shifted and felt how little tension was there.

  The sun pressed against my boots again, warmer now than before.

  The driver hummed under his breath.

  Blade didn’t speak.

  I didn’t either.

  The road curved westward, bending out of sight around a cluster of low trees. Beyond them, the ridge opened into a wide stretch of sky.

  I rested my elbows on my knees and leaned forward slightly, not to balance, just to see better.

  The wind caught my hood and lifted it just enough to cool the back of my neck. The brand didn’t flare. It didn’t pulse.

  It simply existed.

  We rolled past another field where someone had left tools stacked near the edge—carelessly, like they expected to return. No guard. No lock.

  Just trust in the next hour.

  “Hey, Blade?”

  “Mm.”

  “What’s the name of the next town?”

  He didn’t look back. “Hearthfall. Few days, if we walk.”

  “Hearthfall,” I repeated.

  The name sat warm in my mouth for no reason at all.

  “Yeah.”

  The cart didn’t stop again.

  I watched the line of the road as it curved west.

  And kept watching.