The Plains were never quiet, but on the twelfth day their stillness turned to be abnormal. When a wind rolled over the horizon, which was thick with the scent of ozone and decay.
The air was dusty, bitter enough to sting their lungs, and the sky churned as though a living wound had split open above.
Clouds were black as pitch gathered and twisted upon themselves until streaks of green lightning was forced downward, striking the cracked earth with an explosive fury.
Each bolt didn't just burn, it was splitting. Fissures were spidered open where lightning touched, while bleeding a dim light into the world.
From the cracks rose vaporous tendrils, the very breath of the Veil that was curling like fingers that reached for the living. The ground shuddered, trembling with a rhythm that felt too purposeful and too close to a heartbeat.
Kelvin pulled his cloak tighter against his body, though it tried little to keep the storm's chill from gnawing at his bones.
