The crimson mist clung to them like a living thing.
Raerin was the first to cross the threshold, his silhouette swallowed by the thick, rust-hued vapors that billowed from the cavern's mouth. The air inside tasted of old iron and decay, thick and wet, the scent clinging to the back of the throat. Behind him, his people followed, hesitant and weary, their faces drawn tight with exhaustion and fear.
Jonan kept his hand near the hilt of his blade, his other clutching Ayaka's wrist as they descended into the dark. The sound of battle outside was already distant, reduced to distant echoes of steel against flesh and the inhuman howls of beasts. It was behind them now—the ridge, the chieftains, the sacrifice made so that Dragon's Tooth might survive.
