The sun was steadily sinking, dragging with it the last hints of gold across the treetops. Shadows grew longer, and the light that once bathed the trail in warmth now bled into a dull grey veil. The sky, once a brilliant blue, had begun to dim into the hues of approaching dusk.
Still, no bridge.
Not a single arch in the distance. Not even a crude wooden crossing. No carved signposts or any stone pillar with markings. Just the endless river to their side—mighty and quiet, as though mocking them with its stillness—and the dirt trail beneath the carriage wheels. Luke pulled back slightly on the reins, letting Vartha ease into a slower pace.
He exhaled through his nose. "Damn it," he muttered. "It really was a mispoint."
