...The wind was gathering strength as they rode toward the horizon, and Shaundakul's chosen felt the god's presence in every gust, every change in direction. The road ahead disappeared into haze and possibility. There was no promise of destination, no guarantee of welcome or rest. But that was the point. The riders of Shaundakul didn't worship safety or arrival. They worshipped the moment of movement itself, the instant when the weight of what you'd been fell away and you became nothing but forward motion.

One of the younger priests called out a prayer, and the wind picked it up and scattered it like seeds across the wilderness. Shaundakul heard only what he wanted to hear. The journey continued regardless of prayer or blessing. All that mattered was that they kept moving, kept pushing toward horizons that would recede forever, forever worth the reaching...