all the right moves.

This is an excerpt from the short story I am writing. It is a retelling of the legend of Atalanta. Please give me feedback!! I really want it. The whole thing isn't finished yet, but if I work hard, it should be in a couple of weeks.

The Golden Apples (by Rebekah Walker)

The year is 3018. After most of society was wiped out in the Great War nearly a century earlier, the remainder of Earth’s great leaders collaborated to rebuild civilization. They called themselves the Council of the Elders, and organized the survivors into a civilization to last. They decided in re-establishing the feudal system, under the name of the Samontai. They established people in their classes, selected a king, and banned the used of any modern technology. Some of the old folk still remember life before the war, and they spend most of their time trying to bring back some of the old technology. It is not easy, however. Resources are limited, and the Council is watching....
As Milo strolled down the path, he took one last glance at the tiny shack. Thin columns of smoke puffed from the chimney and he knew that Gran would be sitting in her old rocker, knitting or reading, or even just thinking. She never needed to sleep- it was she, after all, who had discovered, (or rediscovered, as she claimed,) how to make Kafeen, the drug that gave an energy boost. The effects of the newer drug were only temporary, but she had tested early drugs on herself, making the effects permanent. She was also the wisest person Milo knew. Wasn’t it her, after all that persuaded him to pursue this crazy adventure? It isn’t every day, she conceded, that you get to compete for the hand of a princess.
Now, as he passed the entrance to the hidden meadow, the scent of the powering pine trees intermingled with the mildly sweet aromas of wildflowers. In his mind, Milo could see the footraces through the long grass, and he could hear the chatters of the young village girls, gossiping and weaving small wildflower crowns. He imagined Rosalee laughing among them, braiding daisies into her shiny black hair. Her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed, and Milo remembered how her favorite dress would dance in the breeze. Though these thoughts made Milo smile, they quickly dissipated as he reached the main road.
The road, usually busy with the hustle and bustle of wagons, was quiet and still. Milo spotted a cart coming down the road. The driver was a burly, middle-aged man, and Milo flagged him down. “Can I get a ride?” he asked.
“Sure,” the driver shifted in his seat. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Might as well be operating a ferry;” he said as Milo scrambled in.

Milo saw what he meant as the cart lurched forward. 3 people- 2 boys about his age and a younger girl were already crowded in among the empty milk cans. One of the boys had bright red hair and a hailstorm of freckles across his cheeks. The other boy and the girl both had olive-colored skin and dark brown hair. They must have been brother and sister, because the girl was crying on the boy’s shoulder while he stroked the long hair that reached past her waist.

“So,” the ginger drawled. “Where are you going? I’m going to New Caledonia, for the princess’s foot race;” he left no room for Milo to respond. This sort of one-sided conversation continued for several hours, before the driver threatened to personally toss the ginger out of the cart if he didn’t shut his mouth. The ginger’s face matched his hair for the remainder of the journey.