The Bramble Region faded far behind them.
It was now swallowed by hills and distance.
They'd crossed the mossy northern ridge that cut the continent like a cracked spine.
Six days on horseback.
Six days of dust.
Six days of nowhere-towns and no friendly inns.
And six excruciatingly long days of Nero being stuck between Lancelot and Thorin.
Both of whom… talked a lot.
And it was always the dumbest things imaginable.
Day Two.
Lancelot proudly raised a finger.
"I'm telling you, the optimal way to shave your jaw is against the grain! Smoothest cheeks possible."
Thorin snorted like a loud pig.
"And I'm telling you, that's how you flay half your face off, ye daft human."
Nero exhaled a long, hopeless sigh.
He glanced ahead.
Merlin rode beside Vivianne again.
She laughed softly and gently twirled her hair.
Like how she normally acted.
She hadn't spoken to him since the whole THING.
Yet—
Every hour or so, she'd suddenly turn her head.
