The Ash Plains stretched like a wound across the earth — vast, endless, and silent. The sky above them was a pale, bruised gray, neither dawn nor dusk, but something caught in between — as if the sun itself refused to rise over this forgotten land. Wind scoured the plains in slow, circular motions, carrying with it the faint scent of scorched soil and the ghost of what once grew here.
Ryon rode at the front, his black cloak trailing behind him in tatters, his eyes narrowed against the shifting dust. His horse's hooves crunched through the brittle crust of ash and bone. Behind him, Elara's mare followed, her cloak drawn tight, her hood low. They had spoken little since leaving the South. Words seemed too fragile out here, where even the air felt dead.
