The afternoon sun beat down on the parched earth, casting long, distorted shadows across the caravan. Aden led the group over the final obsidian ridge, exiting the stifling pressure of the gorge. The silence of the wastes was immediate, broken only by the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the heavy breathing of exhausted horses.
Behind him, the mercenaries moved in a haunted shuffle. They kept their eyes averted from Aden, their earlier bravado replaced by a wary, tight-lipped distance.
Aden stopped abruptly and raised a hand. The lead wagon lurched to a halt.
"Check the boy," Aden said.
Lorelei shimmered into view beside the lead carriage. Eren lay slumped against a crate of refined ore, his skin the color of ash. Faint red sparks occasionally jumped from his fingertips—the volatile discharge of a forced breakthrough.
