The sharp, abrasive throat-clearing from behind the merchant's cart sounded like a death knell in the midday heat. Keira swallowed hard, the scratchy hay pricking through her borrowed linen dress as her heart plummeted to her stomach.
"Please, holy light, let it not be the Arcas guards. If Theron catches me, he will literally turn me into fertilizer."
"Young lady, what in the world are you doing in there? You are ruining my fresh thatch!"
Keira blinked away the dust, peering out through the golden stalks. Standing there was not an imposing imperial knight, but a grumpy, weather-worn driver holding a wooden pitchfork.
"M-Mister? My deepest apologies," she squeaked, hurriedly brushing the loose straw from her silver hair as she scrambled out of the cart.
"Shoo! Away with you, move along
