Night Cart: The Immortal Plague
The Moon Knows the Way
It rises over Transylvania as it always has. I follow where it leads.
I Am to Drive.
Nera von Eberhart has paid for safe passage to the Court of Count St. Germaine. I am to drive, and ask no questions.
Follow the Lantern. Do Not Leave the Road.
The moon guides. The forest listens. What strays from the path seldom returns whole.
The Village Watches in Silence
Windows shuttered. Bats in the rafters. No welcome waits at the end of this street.
She Knows More Than She Tells
Bandits, she says. But the plague is older than thieves — and far less merciful.
The Dead Are Not the Worst Omen
Stripped of coin. Left to rot. Something else passed through here first.
The Road Has Already Taken Its Due
Nera does not flinch. Something fouls this village — and it is not the birds.
The Road Demands Witnesses
I do not know the man. I know only that he will not rise again.
