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The old wagon, laden with empty ale barrels and supplies, creaked rhythmically as it navigated the ruts of the main road. Martha handled the pair of sturdy horses with practiced ease, while Lilian sat beside her, trying to take up as little space as possible. It wasn't easy; with every turn or bump, her body reminded her of its presence.

The golden rays of the setting sun filtered through the ancient, towering canopy of Aethelgard, turning the forest into an ocean of liquid amber. For any other elf, the sight would have been the pinnacle of harmony. But for Lilian, an elite ranger of the Border Corps, this evening was becoming a grueling test of endurance. And the culprit wasn’t the hours spent tracking orcs—it was her own gear.