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Why does misfortune cling to me so relentlessly? We had barely set out from Hoxly—no more than a day on the road—and already disaster struck. One of the trucks in our caravan faltered, its engine stuttering and choking before we were forced to pull over. Of all the vehicles to break down, it had to be the one carrying the precious silter cable—the very lifeline we would depend on once we ventured into the Graylands. With such a critical load immobilized, the entire caravan ground to a halt, unable to press forward.

The engineers quickly swarmed around the truck, their tools clinking as they examined the malfunction. After what felt like an eternity of tense waiting, they assured me the issue could be resolved, though not until tomorrow. A wave of relief washed over me, but only briefly. Thank the Light we had a full team of engineers on hand—had it been otherwise, we might have languished here for days, all due to this mechanical failure. Though I had told myself there was no rush, I still longed to have this endeavor finished before the year's end.

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As if being stranded on the roadside wasn’t frustrating enough, I found myself stuck in conversation with Tom for the better part of the day—a situation that tested both my patience and my sanity. The man, with his slow-witted prattle and vacant expressions, grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I feared that prolonged exposure to his inbred idiocy might dull my own senses, as if his foolishness were some contagious affliction. Each mindless comment he made left me feeling as though my intellect was being steadily eroded, one nonsensical remark at a time.

How could such a man have found his way onto this expedition? His presence alone felt like an insult to Sam, a respectable man of good blood. If this was the caliber of person I had to endure along the way, then all the more reason to press forward quickly—before the Graylands claimed not only my time and resources but perhaps my sanity as well.