The wheels ground against the gravel, emitting a cringe-inducing screech.
Thomas sat in the jolting carriage, a hand tucked inside his well-worn clerical robes, his fingers stroking a silver emblem.
Its surface was pockmarked and bore no inlaid Gemstones; its edges were polished to a shine by the passage of time. Compared to the modern Holy Emblems of the Church—gilded, jewel-studded monstrosities that all but screamed 'I'm rich'—this thing was as humble as a piece of scrap from a blacksmith's forge.
This, however, was an emblem truer to the Lord—or rather, truer to the True Origin.
It was a treasure of the True Origin Sect, passed down for a century, and it was his only solace at this moment.
The scenery receded past the carriage window.
The gates to "Mining Area No. 7" appeared in the distance.
