The morning sky was colorless—pale gray from horizon to horizon, smothered beneath drifting ash that clung to every surface like a slow, suffocating snowfall. As the gates of Ironmark creaked open, Inigo adjusted the strap on his rifle and stepped forward, boots crunching on soot-laced gravel. Behind him, Lyra walked with her bow in hand, an alchemical arrow notched loosely to the string—not ready to fire, but close.
A local scout, a wiry man named Daren with burns along his left arm, met them at the edge of the trailhead. His leathers were blackened at the seams, and he wore a thick scarf wrapped across his face.
"Name's Daren," he rasped, voice roughened by smoke. "I'll take you as far as the Black Cradle. Beyond that, no man in Ironmark's paid enough coin to keep walking."
Inigo gave a curt nod. "Show us the path."
