AS FAMILIAR TO HER AS BREATHING
The Fear of Softer Edges
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The wagon slowly meandered along the road, passing by a seemingly endless expanse of fields. Some contained little more than the remnants of a good harvest while others were being tended to even as the travelers trundled past. Each of the road’s nuances was a bone-rattling, jaw-clenching, headache-inducing experience, but the weather was nice at least. An indolent cloud obscured the sun’s wrath, the air was comfortably cool, and the wind was a gently stirred breath.
It was enough to soften Orcen’s ever-present scowl, and though relaxation might have been impossible, she came as close to it as she could given the circumstances. Even the incessant itching that had plagued her since her ship dropped anchor in this hell had subsided into no more than a minor discomfort.
“Would you believe I’d almost forgotten that Syldning in Thymiene felt this nice?” She’d felt an inner pressure to say it aloud, not that she really expected a response. Or even wanted one, truth be told. The words tasted like ash in her mouth, and as surely as the sun rose each and every morning, a scowl creased her features as the uncomfortable moment of something approaching fondness for her childhood home was quickly swept under the wagon. “It might be one of the only nice things…