Day by day, time passed, proving Henry's ideas and Claude's suspicions correct.
The army continued its march toward Gasil, and just as they'd expected, they encountered more and more trade caravans on the road.
Some of these caravans came from the eastern grasslands, carrying furs and horses; others came from the Northern Mountainous Region, bringing precious ores and armor.
However, despite the endless stream of caravans, not a single one was headed toward Hobia.
Henry sat in his carriage, his brow furrowed. He peered through the curtains, observing every caravan that passed.
He noticed that the merchants and guards in these caravans all wore urgent, worried expressions, as if they were desperate to leave this desert.
"Claude, go and find out why none of these caravans are going to Hobia... Don't ask directly. Avoid arousing their suspicion."
Claude accepted the order and left. After a bit of conversation, he returned to Henry's carriage.
