The Scarlands stretched endlessly before them, a wasteland of cracked earth and yellow sky. Each step was a battle against exhaustion, against the draining aftermath of the power Kaelen had unleashed. Lyra walked beside him, one hand pressed against her wound, the other gripping her staff for support.
They needed rest. They needed supplies. But most of all, they needed to find the Root before the Pestilence grew strong enough to consume everything.
Lyra stopped suddenly, her eyes scanning the dead landscape with an intensity that cut through her pain.
"Wait," she said. "I need to look."
Kaelen turned. "Look for what?"
"Plants. Herbs. Anything that might help." She gestured vaguely at the barren ground. "Diseased areas often produce their own cures. It's a principle of natural magic. The body fights infection. The land fights blight. Somewhere in this wasteland, there's something growing that could counteract the Pestilence."
