They reached the edge of the ruins by mid-afternoon.
Mist clung to the stones like cobwebs, and the wind whistled through the cracks with an eerie, melodic pitch—like the ruins were humming.
Jane stepped forward, hand outstretched, feeling for the pulse of magic.
It was there, but... off.
Not wrong, exactly, but hidden. Twisted like a puzzle. Like someone had bent the air around it.
“Stay sharp,” Rowan murmured behind her.
Dain squinted at the central ring of the ruin. “Something’s off. It smells like...”
He sniffed again. “Is that honey? Why does it smell like honey?”
Jane barely had time to register the question before something snapped—a tripwire of energy exploded, wrapping the group in a sudden burst of gold-silver mist.
Rowan swore.
As the golden mist curled through the air
