Night fell over the Sacred Ridge with a suffocating drop in temperature.
The terrain sloped downward into a broad, sunken basin known as the Weeping Valley. Here, the solid earth gave way to black, bubbling marshland overgrown with towering ghost-cedars. A thick, pale purple vapor drifted across the stagnant pools, glowing with a faint, sickly phosphorescence.
Night-miasma.
Elena stood on a dry mossy rock at the edge of the swamp, tying a strip of clean linen across her nose and mouth.
Even through the cloth, the bitter stench of sulfur and decomposing fungus burned her nostrils. Every breath felt heavy, carrying micro-spores that sought to numb the nervous system of any warm-blooded creature entering the valley.
Her water supply had run dry hours ago, and her throat burned with parch
