The air above ground was not air at all, but ash pretending to breathe. It clung to the tongue, turned each inhale to grit, and swallowed sound in a haze that smeared the ruined horizon. What had once been fields lay broken, charred furrows of earth cracked like old bone. Smoke bled from the carcasses of trees. The sky itself sagged low, a lid of gray pressing the world into silence.
Lindarion moved first, his cloak heavy with soot, his boots whispering over brittle soil. The sword hummed faintly at his hip, its hunger restless but chained. Shadows curled in threads behind him, obeying his restraint. He did not look back until the crunch of footsteps followed.
Nysha came next, her crimson eyes glowing faint in the haze. Shadows moved with her like second skin, curling and uncurling with her breath. She did not speak. She did not need to. The tension in her jaw, the restless coil of her hands, said enough: she hated the open air, hated the silence more.
