Chapter 211
Nima
Riding in a luxurious carriage should be the dream, shouldn't it?
I sink slightly into the cushion—so soft I'm almost convinced I might never stand again—and stare blankly at the passing landscape through the window. Trees blur into golden streaks, the road smooth beneath the wheels. It's quiet, except for the occasional clink of porcelain from the refreshment tray and the quiet hum of the arcane suspension charms stabilizing the ride.
Carriages aren't supposed to be like this. They're supposed to be noisy, bumpy, and crammed with at least six other half-starved students. That's what happened last year, anyway. I rode with four other second-years in a creaking transport cart meant for tools—not people.
This? This is surreal.
"I always forget how lovely the countryside is during this season," a velvety voice murmurs beside me.
I stiffen.
