The transition was not a line on a map, but a sickness in the soil.
For weeks, Lena had grown accustomed to the somber, architectural majesty of the Demon Empire's interior. There, the world felt deliberate. Every mountain seemed shaped by an ancient hand, every forest groomed by centuries of dark, patient intent. The cities were built of obsidian and age, standing as monuments to a civilization that viewed time as a servant rather than a master. Even the air in the heart of the empire felt heavy and curated, like the atmosphere of a great, silent library.
The borderlands were none of those things.
As their small party crested the final ridge of the Iron-Spine foothills, the world simply... unraveled. Below them lay a vast, undulating expanse that looked less like a landscape and more like a wound that had refused to heal.
"It looks unfinished," Lena whispered, pulling her cloak tighter against a wind that didn't just chill the skin, but seemed to vibrate against her teeth.
