The moment Damien stepped out of the coastal forest and onto the great northern plains, he felt it. The subtle but notable shift.
The air was different here. It was colder, sharper, and hungrier.
The plains stretched endlessly in every direction, covered in pale yellow grass that swayed with the wind like an ocean carved from blades.
Scattered boulders jutted out like the bones of ancient beasts, and the distant horizon trembled under mirages of heat and magic.
Fenrir kept its walk at Damien's side silent, nose low, ears twitching. Luton sat curled against Damien's shoulder, occasionally leaning forward to feel the wind. Or perhaps sniff it. Damien didn't know which.
They both sensed it too.
This place was alive, and starving.
Damien adjusted the map in his hand, tracing the route toward the northern coast, hundreds of miles ahead.
He could fly the entire way, but he chose not to because he felt like needed this.
He needed the walk and the hunt that came with it.
