The wind on the mountain ridge changed. The piercing cold of the Whispering Glaciers slowly faded, replaced by a dry, sulfurous heat. The sky above them was no longer the grey of snowstorms but began to be stained by a sickly, bruised crimson, as if the atmosphere itself were a wound.
Nihil walked ahead, his steps steady on the sharp granite rocks. Though his physical body felt no fatigue, his low Capacity was a constant alarm in his mind.
[Capacity: 15/50 -> 16/50 (Slow passive recovery)]
"The rock structure is changing," Elara's voice broke the silence, her breath still ragged. She pointed to the ground. The grey granite began to mix with veins of black obsidian and brittle pumice. "We're approaching a volcanic zone. Or at least, a zone that has experienced massive thermal trauma."
"The Blasted Lands," said Lyraelle, her hand never far from her sword hilt. "The land where gods died. Even Orcs don't dare hunt this far."
