The transition from the fortress to the open basin was a plunge into an ocean of ink. Behind them, the South-Point Outpost looked like a dying ember, its torches flickering weakly against the massive, jagged silhouette of the walls. The smell of the High-Exarch's charred divinity still clung to Aden's cloak, a cloying scent of ozone that refused to dissipate in the dry night air.
The wagons didn't creak; they groaned, the wood protesting as the horses were pushed into a desperate, lung-bursting gallop. Aden stood on the lead bench, his eyes fixed on the horizon where the Black-Stripe Basin dipped into a series of salt-flats and ancient, fossilized reefs.
