The traveler's breath came in short, frantic bursts, his chest rising and falling as though he were drowning in air far too thin to sustain him. A stiff wind swirled, carrying with it the faint tang of something burnt and arcane, and I could almost taste the fear on him, like metal on my tongue. He was young, though it was hard to tell exactly—hunger and terror had carved lines into his face, deepening his age in a way normal years might not have.
His cloak, tattered and stained with the dust of this land, clung to him as if trying to merge with his trembling frame. His knuckles were white against the fabric, nails raking the threads in a nervous pattern. He looked at me, then at Asterion, then back again, unable to settle on which of us was more real or more dangerous. The heavy hush in the air only amplified the sound of his frantic breathing.
