Dawn broke not with golden promise, but with steel-gray skies and a wind that whispered of endings.
Argolaith stood at the edge of Seminah, the fields rolling out behind him like faded parchment, and the cracked path before him stretching into the mist-covered unknown.
Kaelred adjusted his cloak with a dramatic sigh, while Malakar silently checked the seals on their supplies. Thae'Zirak paced behind them in his smaller form, wings twitching with anticipation.
They were ready.
But this time, the air itself felt different.
The rune on Argolaith's forearm pulsed faintly—not with warmth, but with a cool thrum, like a heartbeat too far away to hear clearly.
And the direction it pointed was clear.
Southwest.
To a place no maps marked.
To a region no merchant dared name.
To the stretch of broken wilderness and shattered hills long known by a single title:
The End of the Lands.
Kaelred stared ahead at the horizon, where the road dissolved into fog. "You sure about this?"
