The march began at dawn, the grove's ancient boughs parting like curtains for the spearhead of thirty. Liam walked at the fore with Ti, their hands brushing in silent rhythm, while Citra stood on a raised root beside Lirael, waving until the forest swallowed them. The pendant at Liam's throat pulsed warmly—moonlit sap and stubborn hope woven tight.
The path to the forward camp's ruins took them through increasingly twisted terrain. Golden shafts of morning gave way to bruised twilight under void-tainted skies. **Veil Piercer** hummed constantly now, a passive throb behind Liam's eyes that stripped illusions from the world. What looked like solid ground unraveled into yawning chasms; what seemed clear air writhed with faint red threads probing for weakness.
