The wind that swept through the southern ridge was dry and restless, like a breath from some ancient, slumbering beast.
It carried with it the scent of cracked stone, rotting wood, and old magic—the kind that settled deep in your bones and whispered that you didn't belong here.
Drakemire's lower cliffside slums unfurled ahead like a corpse left to decay in the open. Sagging rooftops leaned against one another like drunkards.
The cobblestone paths were uneven, swallowed in parts by vines and ash-colored moss.
What had once been homes and workshops were now broken shells, sun-bleached and forgotten. No guards. No foot traffic. Not even beggars dared to wander this far down.
Ethan led the group in silence. His eyes moved constantly, noting every flicker of shadow and glint of mana residue.
Something about this place didn't just feel wrong—it felt hollow, as though the city itself was holding its breath.
