The transition from the thin, oxygen-starved heights of the Himalayas to the raw, volcanic sulfur of Iceland was like falling from a dream of heaven into the throat of a furnace. The sky over the Reykjanes Peninsula was a bruised, heavy slate, occluded by the steam rising from the geothermal vents that pockmarked the black basalt landscape. The *smell of the Roman rain* was a distant, tragic perfume, replaced here by the suffocating stench of rotten eggs, wet ash, and the crystalline tang of salt spray.
Lila stepped off the skids of the transport, her boots sinking into the fine, black volcanic sand. Beside her, *the sound of Ethan’s jagged breathing* was a frantic, rhythmic rattle against the wind. His body was failing, the feedback from the First Foundation having scorched his nervous s
