The wind still whipped dust across the open wastes as the trio pressed on.
Luna led, steps light yet sure, moving as though the desert were mapped upon her heartbeat.
Flaxseed huffed, "How much farther to Eastshire's walls? My legs are singing their own funeral hymn."
Days of relentless travel had drained him, and the promise of finding the Sixth Hall drove an impatient spark through every weary muscle.
"Almost there," Luna replied, pointing to a rise of dunes ahead. "Cross that ridge and the city comes into view."
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