The Ashen Field wasn't a metaphor.
It was literal.
There were no trees, no grass, no life. Just a vast, barren circle of grey dirt that stretched for two hundred yards. The ground was scorched, permanently stained by the fires that had burned thousands of bodies centuries ago. It smelled of sulfur and old death.
Around the perimeter, the Valdivian Forest loomed, dark and watchful. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, the sun setting in a blaze of ominous orange.
We arrived on foot. Jack, Uncle Brent, and Reagan were already there, waiting at the edge of the clearing.
Across the field, the Silver Moon delegation had gathered. Sebastian Knight stood in the center, flanked by his enforcers. He was the only one wearing a suit—a deep midnight blue that made him look like a sleek, dangerous
