Chapter 18. The Forbidden Script

The road to Rianmar snaked its way along terraces of pale, sun-bleached stone, each turn offering a new glimpse of craggy outcrops and whispering winds that carried a cool breath from distant heights. Then, as if drawn by some secret hand, the path dipped into valleys bathed in silver mist, where the world beyond the next bend seemed to vanish into a curtain of fog. Lora, sealed inside the guarded carriage, felt every undulation of the way through her wrists, bound so tightly by a fine silk cord that each shift brought a fresh sting of chafing against her skin. The air inside was still—stifling, even—while the escorting soldiers flanked the vehicle in such rigid silence that the hush around her felt heavier than any chain.

At last, the carriage came to rest before the soaring gates of the neutral city. Rianmar did not blaze like Elysor’s ivory spires nor frown with the severity of its iron ramparts. Instead, its towers emerged softly from the mist, tall and unhurried, like wat