The land changed.
Not gradually. Not kindly.
The environment changed as soon as one stepped over the northern hill; the colors faded to a bruised twilight, and the wind became thin and whispered with whispers that weren't a part of the living.
The Outer Scar wasn’t a place.
It was a wound.
As soon as his boot pierced the treeline, Quinn sensed it—a pull deep in his sternum, a shudder down his spine, as though something old had recognized his blood.
His heart thumping, he paused.
Jace placed a steady hand on his back. “You alright?”
“No,” Quinn whispered. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been.”
Jace gave him a crooked smile. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah. Still breathing. Still broken.”
They walked.
The deeper they went, the more the forest decayed. Trees gave way to petrified bonewood
