The road beyond the Forerunner ruin was quiet.
No illusions. No shrieking bone-creatures. No whispering winds.
Just stone underfoot and a long stretch of rolling, colorless terrain that seemed to go on forever.
Argolaith walked ahead, his cloak fluttering softly behind him, the rune on his forearm dim and steady. The subtle pull toward the fourth tree remained constant, like a compass in his blood—distant, but unwavering.
Malakar drifted behind him, silent as ever.
Kaelred, on the other hand, was kicking a rock down the path for sport.
"I swear," Kaelred muttered, watching it bounce. "We've walked for days and the landscape hasn't changed. It's like the land itself forgot how to be interesting."
Argolaith gave a faint smile but didn't respond.
Thae'Zirak flew overhead in lazy circles, his wings catching the wind with ease in his small form. Every so often, he swooped low just to stir the dust around Kaelred's head.
