The transition from the petrified peaks of Aetheria to the low, mist shrouded valleys of the Sanguine Border was marked by a shift in the very scent of the air.
The dry, mineral bite of obsidian gave way to something thick and metallic the smell of overripe iron and ancient, stagnant water. This was the territory of the Sanguine, a lineage that did not hide their nature behind marble thrones, but embraced the primal, fluid essence of their power.
King Theroren and Andrea moved like ghosts through the Crimson Weald, a forest where the leaves were perpetually a deep, bruised purple.
Theroren's presence was a localized storm of heat, his Burning Heart pulsing with a rhythmic, low hum that pushed back the clinging fog.
"The border is guarded by the Blood-Tithes," Theroren whispered,
his hand resting on the hilt of the Aethel-Breaker, which hung across his back.
"They do not recognize the authority of the Obsidian Throne, only the weight of the tribute."
Andrea adjusted her satchel, feeling the lead-lined pouch containing the blackened Lumen Stone.
"We have no gold, Theroren. And the Nixorath is already feeding on the ley lines. If the Sanguine haven't felt the chill yet, they will soon."
They reached the crossing a bridge made of calcified bone spanning a river of dark, sluggish crimson.
Standing at the center was a figure draped in silks the color of arterial spray.
This was a Sanguine Sentinel, his skin almost translucent, his eyes glowing with a faint, bioluminescent hunger.