The wind howled low through the ravine, carrying with it the scent of charred earth and something more ancient something watching. Thalen adjusted the strap of his sword across his back, the weight of it a familiar anchor against the rising unease in his chest. The sky had long since turned a dull, iron-gray, dimming the world beneath a veil of cloud. Even the sun dared not shine here.
They had arrived at the edge of the Wraithlands the unclaimed stretch of barren wilderness where, decades ago, tyrants had once clashed. It was said that this was where the first wielder of the Tyrant's Spirit had awakened. Now, what remained was a land scorched of life and purpose, as if the aura itself had been stripped from the soil.
Beside Thalen, Corin stood silently, eyes scanning the empty horizon. Behind them, Selene crouched, examining a series of claw marks gouged into a blackened stone.
"We're being watched," she murmured, her fingers tracing the grooves.
