The Silent March to Blackthorn
The sky was low and heavy with the burden of bruised clouds that hung over the earth. But the persistent sun had already begun, tugging at the darkness, ripping through with streaks of molten gold. Between jagged charcoal boulders, the light spread like silk—delicate, warm—over the drenched ground.
Yesterday's storm had been pitiless. It pounded the roads into rivers, pummeled stone relentlessly, and numbed both bone and soul. Now it was over, leaving the world wet and shining. Water clung to every leaf as if it couldn't quite release, shuddering before running free in slow, glinting drops. Stones shimmered wet in the newly arisen light.
