The dust on the Plains of Ash didn’t rise like ordinary soil. The heavy wooden wheels of the supply cart rolled through the ruts. Then, the powder lifted in slow, curdled plumes that stayed in the air like shredded parchment. It refused to settle. It tasted of cold animal fat, rusted iron, and the faint, spark bitterness of an un-burned fire.
Ren Vale walked on the windward side of the draught ox, his boots wrapped in layers of tarred burlap to keep the bitter-salt grit from eating the stitching out of the leather. Every three paces, a dull, rhythmic throb flared in his left knee. The dry, grinding protest of joint padding that had aged ten years in the span of an afternoon.
He was nineteen by the town registers of Low-Khorat. He was twenty-nine by the marrow in his shins, the silver threads shot through the unwashed black hair at his temples. The deep, webbed creases carved into the corners of his eyes.
“You’re dragging the heel again,” a quiet voice said from the cart bench.
Ren didn’t break his stride, though his breath rasped against the back of his throat. “The ox is leaning left. I’m keeping the traces taut.”
