The land they crossed had long since forgotten what it meant to be alive.
What had once been forest was now a graveyard of twisted trunks, bark peeled away like flesh from bone. The ground was a patchwork of blackened soil and brittle stone, veined with faint, pulsing cracks that oozed dim violet light. Every step crunched, not on leaves, but on something that sounded… wrong.
Like dried remnants of things that should have decayed, but hadn't.
Three figures moved through it cautiously.
They wore expedition cloaks over reinforced armor, each marked faintly with the sigil of Anbord, three interlocking golden rings. Their movements were disciplined, but their eyes never stopped scanning.
They had been chosen. Not randomly. Not by rank. But by Ethan himself.
Which meant one thing... This mission mattered.
