The wind howled across the Dreadmarch Wastes, a mournful song that carried the voices of the dead. Black sands stretched endlessly beneath a sky choked with storm clouds, the moon nothing but a pale ghost behind shifting veils of dust. Five figures moved through the darkness, their horses kicking up trails of grit as they rode in silence.
At the head of the group, Kaelen adjusted the scarf wrapped around his face, shielding himself from the biting wind. He was no stranger to long, quiet nights like this-where the air felt too still, too watchful, as if something unseen lurked just beyond the edges of perception. His gloved hand tightened around the reins. They were close now.
Ahead of them, rising like the carcass of some long dead titan, loomed the ruins of Vareth-Ka.
The lost city.