The blight was a stain on the soul of the world. It was no longer just the scar around the Cradle or the erased villages. It was a creeping malaise that seeped into the very air they breathed. The grass in the meadows they crossed was a sickly yellow-grey, crunching underfoot like brittle bone. Streams ran sluggish and murky, their waters tasting of metal and despair. The beastlines here were not just wounded; they were… muted. As if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the final, silencing blow.
Ren moved through this dying landscape like its natural conclusion. His silence was no longer just grief; it was a resonance with the blight. He was a man harmonizing with the world’s end. He ate when food was given, drank when water was offered, but it was a mechanical process. F
