The wind carried the scent of scorched wood and bitter metal as the companions left the ruined tower behind. Though the corruption that had plagued it was quelled, a chill lingered in the air, as though the tower itself mourned what it had become. Elara felt the tension knot in her chest—not from fear, but the burden of foresight. The vision that had struck her in the tower hadn't faded. The towering figure wreathed in shadows still loomed at the edges of her consciousness, its awareness pressing down like the weight of an unseen storm.
They moved quickly, driven by the urgency of what they had discovered and the dread of what it might herald. The journey to the northern grove, the next place of rumored corruption, was silent save for the crunch of boots on underbrush and the occasional murmur of a ley line that Elara could barely perceive. The box—wrapped tightly in cloth and slung beneath Lysander's cloak—seemed to hum with a sullen energy, as if it disapproved of its capture.
