The wind had changed.
It wasn’t just colder now, it was heavier. Like breathing through ash.
Ashwing’s wings beat slow and steady above the clouds. Lindarion sat along his back, hood drawn, cloak stiff from salt and sea spray. The world behind them was only a line now, a memory of green fading into sky.
He didn’t know how long they’d flown.
Days blurred. Nights even more so.
There were no stars here anymore. Just thick gray hanging overhead like an old breath no one had exhaled.
Even the ocean had turned black.
It churned below in silence, no gulls, no sky-fish, not even the distant hum of mana-rich reefs.
And now... neither of them spoke.
’This place is wrong.’
He didn’t need to say it aloud. Ashwing felt it too.
They hadn’t landed in nearly two days. There was no land to land on. Just wind. Endless, churning wind and clouds that didn’t move unless they forced their way through.
"Land," Ashwing murmured.
Lindarion’s eyes narrowed.
Ahead, through the veil of mist, a shape loomed.
At first it looked like mountains. But mountains didn’t move.
A crooked range stretched out beneath them, half-submerged in the sea. Jagged peaks like claws. Everything black. Like obsidian, but dull. Dead.
Ashwing circled once, slower now.
Below, just past the edge of the cliffs, something like a shore stretched inward, a forest maybe, but not of trees.
Spines. Dark red and twisted upward like petrified roots. The entire coast looked like it had been melted, cooled, then twisted into something that used to be alive.
Ashwing banked low and finally landed on a ridge, feet crunching against ground that didn’t feel like stone.
Lindarion slid off his back and immediately dropped to one knee.
His legs ached. Muscles sore from days of tension.
Ashwing said nothing. The dragon shifted to his smaller form and paced a tight circle in the dirt, claws twitching.
"I don’t place," he said.
Lindarion stood slowly, brushing the front of his cloak free of dried salt. He looked up.
The sky was still gray. Still wrong. Like it hadn’t moved in years.
But the pulse was stronger now.
The stone in his palm, silent for so long, was warm again. A low, thudding warmth like a heartbeat beneath ash.
He stared ahead, down the slope, toward the dark coast.
He didn’t know what it was yet.
But the feeling in his chest hadn’t lied.
He glanced at Ashwing. "We scout. Quietly. No fire. No noise."
Ashwing gave a curt nod.
Every step forward, the ground changed.
It was a continent, yes. But it didn’t feel like one. The trees, if they could be called that, were hollow. Coiled upward in spirals. Cracked like glass, but heavy as bone. Mana didn’t hum here. It slept. Dead. Cold.
Lindarion touched one of the twisted trunks with his palm.
He yanked his hand back, eyes narrowing.
"What the hell is this place?"
Ashwing hissed softly. "It’s not part of our world."
Lindarion didn’t argue.
They kept walking. Over hills that bled dark mud. Through fog that didn’t lift. Past rocks shaped like broken statues, half-buried, their features worn down by time, or worse.
In the distance, far down the slope, barely visible through the fog—
No flame. No mana beacon.
Ashwing stopped beside him. "That’s a city."
The shapes were rough, sharp-edged. Towers, but not built, they looked grown. A wall of coiled roots, or maybe bone, looped around it. Black banners hung from spires, unmoving in the dead air.
Lindarion let the silence settle.
He kept his head low.
The cloak’s hood hung forward, shadowing his features. He’d caked ash across his exposed hands earlier, letting the soot cling to his skin like old burns. Nothing too dramatic. Just enough to dull the brightness of his complexion. Make him look... not elven.
Ashwing had already shifted.
Now a small, black-scaled lizard curled deep in his coat pocket, motionless except for the occasional twitch of a claw against fabric.
Neither of them spoke.
Not in the way a city should be, with chatter, movement, warmth. This place pulsed low and wrong. Like a wound that hadn’t closed.
The buildings looked carved instead of built, some rough like sharpened bones, others smooth and towering like molten stone that had cooled in place. They curved inward slightly, as if leaning to listen. Watch.
No signs. No merchants. No guards.
If they could be called that.
They walked slow. Quiet. They didn’t rush anywhere. Didn’t talk. Their skin looked gray, washed out like clay left too long in the rain. Hair black, stiff. And their eyes...
Not glowing. Not magical.
Lindarion didn’t meet any of their stares. He kept his pace steady, boots crunching over stone that didn’t feel like stone. The streets coiled slightly, rising and dipping without reason. Symbols marked the walls. Jagged. Angular. He didn’t recognize the language. Neither did the system.
Not even a flicker of translation.
He passed two women at a corner—each carried small sacks on their backs, heads down, movements synchronized. Neither looked up as he walked past. Their steps never changed.
Ashwing’s voice scratched faintly through the bond. "This place is dead."
’No. It’s worse than dead.’
Lindarion kept moving.
Down an alley, through a narrow arch. The light never changed. Still that greenish hue. It didn’t come from the sky, there was no sky. Just gray mist overhead, shifting too slow to be real.
They reached a square.
Or something like one.
A gathering space, maybe. Dozens of the red-eyed people stood in loose clusters. Not speaking. Not touching. Just... watching. Each facing different directions. But none at him.