The old river bed was like a wound carved into the very earth. A scar embedded in the world that time could not heal. It stretched before them like the corpse of some great serpent, fifteen feet deep and perhaps thirty across at its widest point, winding through the corrupted overcropping forest with a meandering path.
But there was no water now. Only pale and brottle cracked earth, scattered with smooth black stones that gleamed dully in the pale light drifting from the skies
Nero stood at the edge, looking down into the depression, and felt something shift in his chest.
"Careful," Arthur said, his voice low. "The ground near the edges tends to be unstable."
They descended carefully, using exposed roots and jutting rocks as handholds. The descent was steeper than it looked from above.
The air down here was cool and carried a faint scent of fungus growth and algae. But there was also a subtle stench of rot that lingered in the wind drafts.
