The trek toward the Frozen Wastes was a journey through a dying world. The further North they traveled, the more the sky resembled a bruised lung—purple, heavy, and struggling to breathe. The wind here didn't just blow; it shrieked, a high-pitched lament that seemed to vibrate within Gwen's very marrow.
They stood at the ridge overlooking the Silent Valley. But as the mist cleared, Gwen realized the name was a lie. It wasn't just a valley; it was a sprawling, skeletal ruin of a city, half-buried in ice and ash. Stone arches, jagged and blackened by some ancient inferno, reached up like the ribs of a gargoyle.
"This isn't just a graveyard," Gwen whispered, her breath hitching as a sudden, sharp pain lanced through her temple. "I know this place. I know the smell of the air here. It smells like... copper and scorched stone."
