The River of Ash was a boundary not just of geography, but of reality. The grey, particulate water did not flow so much as seep, absorbing sound and scent, leaving a sterile silence on its far bank. The Vale of Umbra lay within that silence, a secret held in the world’s cupped hands.
They camped in the last stand of gnarled, living trees before the ashen waste, the oppressive pull of the heir now a physical ache in Kael’s bones, a taut string vibrating with a note of pure, centuries-old despair. They would cross at first light.
But the world behind them would not let go.
Elara was asleep, her mental shields a low, silver hum in the dark, but Kael’s senses were stretched wire-taut. The shadow within him was restless, reacting not just to the Vale’s call, but to a sharper, more immediate
