Lincoln's POV
We departed from the pollute river, yet its smells still lingered behind.
Even after walking for miles, I was certain I could still scent it—the rotting, the iron, the acrid ash of the tainted Guardian's corpse. Each stride we took felt heavier, as if Sylvara itself weighted us down in bereavement.
No one spoke. Not for hours.
It wasn't fatigue alone. It was the Guardian's words.
Child of fire. Cursed blood.
They weren't for the group. They were for me. And all of them were aware of it.
We rested in a space of old oaks, the branches twisting like sheltering arms. Amir barked out a stop, his voice is sharp, and took watch rotation with cold military precision. But his gaze… it stayed on me a little longer than the others. Puzzling. Measuring.
While we are resting, Sky
