The map spread across the rotted log was a topographical nightmare—a jagged web of ley lines that pulsed with a sickly, fading light. Seth stood on one side, his stylus tapping against his tablet, the rhythmic click-click cutting through the forest's oppressive silence. He leaned over the display, his frame casting a sharp shadow over the intricate diagrams. Elaris hovered at the edge of the light, his posture rigid. He watched Seth’s hand—calloused, pragmatic, and utterly devoid of the etiquette of the court—trace a line directly through the Southern lowlands. The massive, heavy-headed maul rested against his shoulder, a weapon of brutal, crushing intent that seemed at odds with his elegant, silk-clad frame.
"It’s a death march, Seth," Elaris said, his voice hard. "I’ve walked those path
