They paused once, near a low cluster of crumbling stones that might have once formed a shrine or watchtower. Asterion scouted ahead for a moment, scanning for illusions or watchers. Draven stood still, letting the ground shift beneath him, allowing it to ripple around his boots as if in challenge. He refused to be unnerved by it. He had survived cosmic anomalies in the Ashen Expanse, outrun illusions that hunted him like prey. Whatever game this twisted land intended, he would not falter.
When Asterion returned, shaking his head to indicate no immediate threat, they continued. The unnatural haze in the sky thickened overhead, swirling in lazy patterns reminiscent of bruises on flesh. Draven suppressed a grimace. The land felt wounded, every mile a fresh scab or open sore in the Tapestry's weave. The worst was yet to come, he sensed—Kael'Thorne lay ahead, rumored to be the epicenter of these distortions. If their path was this bent and broken, how horrifying would the city itself be?
