The morning sun bled pale light over the horizon as the group broke camp. Mist rolled off the ridgeline, curling around their feet like restless spirits reluctant to part. The air carried a faint hum — the residual echo of the Voice, still whispering somewhere deep within Eryndor’s mind.
They moved in silence for a while, each lost in thought. The path ahead wound through steep cliffs and overgrown ruins toward the dark expanse known as the Obsidian Veil — the first threshold of the Shadowlands.
Zephyr led the way, his senses sharp. “The air’s changing,” he muttered. “The wind dies too quickly here… something’s draining the life out of it.”
Aria walked beside him, her hand brushing the leaves of a dying vine. “It’s the corruption,” she said softly. “The earth remembers pain. Every step
