The dandelion was as light as a flake of ash.
It had floated in from a distant land too far to fathom, carrying a scent as if it had drifted with the monsoon to the mainland, crossed mountains and valleys, and passed straits and hills to reach this inland area.
Its path was clear and direct—in the center of that gray plain, where countless roads led to, lay the magnificent Royal City, spanning dozens of miles.
Yet, the long journey seemed to have worn out the last bit of patience in the dandelion, or perhaps the moisture of the Allen Plain made the dandelion heavier, the dandelion in the sky got lower and lower, and finally fell atop a carriage.
The road extended forward, all the way to the gates of the Royal City.
No one in the carriage, neither the coachman nor the passengers in the compartment, noticed the insignificant dandelion that had landed on the roof, which swayed along with the carriage.
