The hills closed around him as he walked, their rocks sharp like broken spears. The air was quiet, but not clean. Shadows hung too long in the cracks, and the wind carried whispers that weren't its own.
Asher's boots crunched on gravel and bone dust. His cloak trailed behind him, marked with old blood. Each step reminded him of the Herald's last words—what he had cut down was not the end, only another opening.
By the second ridge, he smelled rot and iron. The wind grew hot, heavy. When he reached the top, he saw the valley—and his hand went to his scythe.
Another shrine.
This one was built into the earth itself. Huge ribs rose like walls around it, black banners hanging stiff with dried gore. In the center, chains reached down into a deep pit, each one pulling tight as if holding something that wanted out. Around the pit, dozens of zealots knelt in silence, their masks painted red like they had been dipped in blood.
