Morning came slow and green.
The sky brightened like a leaf filling with light. The moss road hummed underfoot, pleased with their weight and their purpose.
Once again, Clayton led.
Veyra walked at his right, bow coiled along her forearm like a sleeping vine. Soren carried his Emberblade on his shoulder. Kaelin drifted in and out of the Ashveil, a flicker here, a whisper there.
They did not speak much. They didn't need to, the road spoke for them.
It guided them south and a little east, then curved to avoid a low valley. The valley felt wrong as the moss thinned there and refused to carry weight.
Clayton tested the edge with a root. The ground tasted dry and old, as if a fire had burned here long ago and the ash had decided to stay.
"The scar," Clayton said quietly.
They went down anyway.
The air changed as they descended. The bright green of Echoterra dimmed to a dull, bruised hue as the wind thinned.
