Raerin didn't need to look back to know his people were fraying at the edges. He could feel it, like a taut string ready to snap. Every shallow breath, every clink of a boot against stone, every muffled sob from a child huddled against their mother's side clawed at the fragile calm they'd built in the hours since leaving the surface. But they had to keep moving. To stop was to die. Worse than that, to be forgotten.
The thick, metallic fog clung to their bodies, seeping into skin, hair, and breath. Even their weapons gleamed red, slick with dew that was not water. Somewhere above, the world of trees and stars and firelight had ceased to exist, replaced by this forsaken wound in the earth. Raerin pressed onward.
"Light ahead," called one of the scouts, his voice a ragged whisper.
Raerin's brow furrowed. There shouldn't be light. Not here. Not unless it came from something alive.
