The air reeked of ash and iron as Kael plunged his dagger into the creature’s throat. Blood sprayed across his gauntlets, hot and sticky, mingling with the sweat clinging to his skin. The beast convulsed, its skeletal frame shuddering against…
The air in Emberfall smelled of smoke and iron, a scent Kaela had known since birth. Her fingers traced the grooves of the lantern she carried, its glass surface etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The…
The air in Kael’s workshop reeked of iron and burnt oak, the scent clinging to his skin like a second layer. His hammer struck the anvil with a rhythm that had not faltered in twenty years, each blow shaping molten…
The air in Tharvyn stank of burnt sage and old iron. Kael crouched beside the riverbank, fingers pressing into the damp earth as he scanned the tangled reeds. Somewhere in the muck, the vial lay hidden—a glass capsule no larger…
The air stank of iron and pine as Kael drove his blade into the creature’s throat, its obsidian scales slick with rain. The thing convulsed, a guttural shriek tearing from its maw, and Kael wrenched the sword free, spitting blood…
The air in Elmhollow reeked of burnt pine and iron. Kael stood at the edge of the village square, his fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger as the sky above split open. A jagged tear, wider than a…
The air tasted of iron and ash as Kael tightened his grip on the rusted dagger. The forest around him pulsed, not with life, but with something older—something hungry. His boots crunched over brittle branches, each snap echoing like a…
The sky above Thalorien had turned the color of bruised flesh, a sickly purple that bled into the horizon like ink in water. Kael stood at the edge of the Obsidian Spire, his boots crunching over shattered glass from the…
Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light slicing the gloom of the archive. Old Man Tiber, hunched like a question mark over a brittle scroll, traced a finger across faded ink. The parchment felt like dried skin under…
The dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing the ruined temple. It smelled of wet stone and something else…something like burnt honey and regret. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though he wasn’t *that* old—more weathered, like…
The wind tasted of grit and regret. Lysara cursed, picking bits of shale from her braid. Below, the valley sprawled, stitched with silver rivers. Not the view she’d anticipated. Not at all. She’d pictured a graceful landing, a triumphant return.…