The gravel raised stone road vanished into the mist twenty paces ahead of the lead mule’s nose.
It wasn’t normal river fog.
The vapor was heavy, clinging, and smelled faintly of zinc shavings and waterlogged silk.
The wagon rolled deeper into the marsh basin. Then, the fog condensed upon the timber spokes of the wheels, forming thick beads of oily moisture that refused to run down the wood.
Lu Chen held the leather reins with his left hand, his stance relaxed against the bench.
Beside him, An Ni sat with her heavy cold-iron wrench resting across her knees, her eyes scanning the gray blankness where the post-road intersected the dark water.
Beneath the steady crunch of the wagon wheels, the marsh was dead silent.
No frogs croaked in the black water.
