The march back to the Crimson Ridge was a slow-moving funeral procession that refused to die.
Elara leaned heavily on the Trident of the Tides, her movements stiff, her iridescent armor scarred by the void-ice of the pass. Beside her, Kaelen moved with a grim, focused energy. He had traded his silver blade for a heavy iron spear salvaged from the colony ruins, and his obsidian fur was matted with a mixture of salt and mountain clay.
Behind them trailed the "United Army"—a term that felt like a bitter joke. Three dozen Mermen in leaking pressure suits leaned on the shoulders of scarred North Star wolves. It was a line of survivors who had been hollowed out and filled back up with terror.
"They can't keep this pace, Elara," Kaelen whispered, glancing back at a limping mermaid being carrie
