Solius walked alone through a valley where no birds sang and no wind stirred the dead trees. His boots crunched over broken bones—old, brittle, half-swallowed by the earth. The sky above was a smear of grey, stretched thin like old cloth. Even the sun seemed reluctant to shine here.
He didn't know how many days it had been. Time twisted in places like this. Sometimes his shadow stretched the wrong way. Sometimes the blood on his blade dried and turned fresh again. Hunger came and went without rhythm, and sleep, when it found him, brought dreams that bled into waking. The Underground bent the rules of the world—bent him along with it. The Underground played tricks on the senses—one step could stretch into a mile, and a breath could echo for hours.
But he kept walking.
