The cellar was a pressure cooker of damp stone and desperation. Above, the valley was being swallowed by a "sweetness" that shouldn't exist; below, the air was still heavy with the scent of old dirt and the copper tang of blood from Vane's wounds.
The silence was broken by a wet, hacking cough. One of the eight leaders doubled over, clutching his chest.
"It's too sweet," he wheezed, his eyes darting toward the ceiling. "Do you smell that? It's like rotting honey."
The others froze. They looked at the floorboards above, where the faint, golden-sickly scent was beginning to seep through the cracks like an invisible liquid. It wasn't attacking them yet—the thick stone walls of the cellar acted as a temporary seal—but it was creeping. It was patient.
"Something is wrong," Elara whispered. She looked at Jones, whose hand was white-knuckled around his sword hilt. "That isn't the smell of the fields. That's the smell of Azalea."
