Edran's captors had left a clear trail—burned reeds, broken sigils, scraps of crimson cloth. They were not hiding; they wanted Aric to follow.
The marsh gave way to rising hills, where the ground turned hard and jagged. Strange pillars of black stone jutted from the earth like the bones of giants.
Mira walked a step behind Aric, her silence heavier than chains. He ignored her, focusing on the trail.
By nightfall, they reached a ridge that overlooked a valley of ruins. Towers broken in half, arches buried in sand, carvings weathered by time.
Mira's breath caught. "This is… older than the First Kings."
Aric felt the fire stir, thrumming in his chest. The ruins seemed to pulse with the same rhythm.
Somewhere below, Edran was a prisoner. And something else waited—something ancient.