I have left my past behind for good, the footprints have faded in the sands of change.
Fortunately a Dusk Wagon strayed into Keille and its driver agreed to take me as an extra passenger. The driver is an unsettling man with white hair and a fiercely serious face, but I am desperate.
He tells me of truly wicked days ahead, the crash of The Worldly Chronicle and the mania that lies in waiting. I listen intently and wonder if the old man realises how true his predictions are. If he knew what I intended to do, he'd shrivel up and call on whichever god he believed to be watching.
Currently I sit by dying candlelight at the back of his rickety wagon. The shade-cloth he has pilfered feels oddly cold to the touch, and empty like an echo. I wonder where he found them.
I will leave him at the White Divide and make my own way. The winged ones will be waiting.
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