Cherion's first thought wasn't panic. It was disgust. The place reeked, rotting hay, horse crap, and straw that had seen better centuries. Not exactly the sandalwood-scented, icy-clean air of Zarius's halls.
The rumble hit next. Thump-thump-thump, wooden wheels tearing through mud.
Cherion tried to move, but his brain felt like it had been pureed in a blender. Every heartbeat sent a tiny army marching across his temples. He was lying flat, cramped, and wrapped in something that felt like a giant, scratchy potato sack.
Wow. Soren really went full villain. Does he have a musical number prepared, or are we skipping the choreography and going straight to the cliff-pushing?
He wiggled, feeling remarkably like an oversized, grumpy caterpillar. His limbs were heavy, limp, and entirely uncooperative. The sedative Soren had used was no joke. With a frustrated huff that sent a puff of dust straight up his nose, he wriggled his way out of the scratchy sack.
