The mountains of the dwarves were still several days away, their jagged silhouettes barely visible against the morning sky. But Luca and his companions did not slow. The air grew colder with each step, the earth harder, the silence heavier.
The night after the forest massacre never seemed to end.
Even after the cultists' last mocking echo faded, Luca and his companions did not slow. They moved as shadows across the land — silent, sharp, merciless — their steps fueled not by exhaustion but by a fire that refused to die.
The continent felt different now.
More brittle.
More infected.
And every stretch of land they crossed carried the stench of something festering beneath the surface.
Their destination:
The Dwarven Lands.
A place where the mountains rose like iron spires and the earth itself roared with ancient mana.
But the journey itself had other plans.
Kyle walked ahead, spear resting on his shoulder.
Sylthara moved like a half-visible phantom along the treeline.
