Cold.
That was the first thing my skin felt. Not the sharp chill of a winter wind, or even the cold from Seris's Lunar affinity, but a heavy, rotting, wrong kind of cold. It hung in the air like a wet blanket, sticking to my throat with every breath, tasting faintly of metal and rot.
I stood on the wet stones near the edge of the Western Plaza, my fingers gripped so tightly around Tempest's handle that my hand hurt.
My sensory skills were practically screaming at each other in the back of my skull.
Spatial awareness felt like a wire stretched too thin. The space around the outer walls wasn't just twisted, it was rippling, like water being stirred from below. Flash Instinct was a low, constant buzz in my ears, warning me that the air itself was dangerous.
And Soul Perception?
