The Martissant camp looked like a wounded giant, breathing with difficulty under a leaden sky. The fires burned low, as if ashamed of their own light. The air, once charged with the martial brilliance and ozone of the Awakened, was now heavy with muffled groans, bitter antiseptics, and cold ashes. Elisa stood near the entrance of the makeshift infirmary, her arms wrapped around herself, as if to ward off a cold no one else could feel.
She didn't hear pain—it came to her as vibration in the essence, a sharp dissonance flickering at the edge of her awareness. Every bit of suffering, every fear, every drop of despair seeped into the ground and flowed, like a black stream, toward the forest. Toward the Mouth.
She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting against the distant echo of a dark and ancient satisfaction that resonated beneath the camp's misery.
