Crossing the Blightline was not like stepping over a border. It was like passing through a membrane from one reality into another, far more terrible one. The air, which had merely tasted of dust on the hill, now filled their lungs with the substance of decay. It was thick, cold, and carried a fine, grey ash that coated their tongues and the backs of their throats. The vibrant, living sounds of the world—the birds, the insects, the wind in the leaves—were severed with an absolute finality. The silence of the Ashen Weald was a physical presence, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint, mournful groan of dying trees shifting in a wind that shouldn't exist.
The light itself was wrong. The sun, visible as a dull, bronze coin through the perpetual haze, provided no warmth. Its rays were weak and sickly, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to cling with greedy fingers. The ground underfoot was not soil, but a fine, grey powder that held the shape of their footprints for a moment before slowly collapsing in on itself. Nothing grew. Nothing lived. The only colors were shades of grey, from the pale dust to the charcoal black of the petrified trees that stood like the tombstones of a forest.
Elian pulled a strip of cloth from his pack, wet it from his waterskin, and tied it over his nose and mouth. His eyes, above the fabric, were wide with a mixture of academic horror and a grim, confirmed dread. "The stories do not do it justice," he murmured, his voice muffled. "To see it... to breathe it... It is a blasphemy against life itself."
Kael said nothing. He didn't need a cloth. Theron's power was a subtle filter in his veins, shielding him from the worst of the physical discomfort. But it could not shield him from the spiritual vileness of the place. The Scale within him was screaming. Every inch of this land was a weight on the crimson plate, an open, festering wound upon the world. The humble wooden carving in his pouch felt like a relic from a dream, a memory of a world that was already fading.
He focused on the sensation of the sword at his hip. It was quiet, but he could feel its attention, like a watchful predator. It was waiting. This was its hunting ground.
"They will know we are here," Kael said, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence. "The things that live in this silence. They will have felt the light when I killed the wargs."
"Undoubtedly," Elian agreed, his gaze constantly scanning the skeletal trees. "We are a splash of color on a canvas of grey. We cannot hope for stealth. Only speed and purpose."
They pushed deeper, their progress slow as they navigated the treacherous, ash-choked terrain. The remnants of the old road were completely gone, swallowed by the grey tide. They navigated by the subtle pull Kael felt, the compass of Theron's will pointing him toward the heart of the corruption.
The attack came not from above, nor from the trees—but from beneath the ashes.
They were crossing what had once been a small clearing when the ash in front of them erupted. Not one, but three forms clawed their way into the open. They were vaguely humanoid, but twisted and malformed, made of compacted ash and tangled, thorny roots that pulsed with the same sickly green energy they had seen on the farmhouse. They had no faces, only pits of deeper darkness where eyes should be, and their limbs ended in sharp, jagged points.
Blight Hounds. Elementals of pure corruption.
They moved with a horrifying, jerky speed, scuttling like insects. One lunged for Elian, a root-limb whistling through the air like a whip. The scholar was surprisingly agile, ducking under the blow and slashing with his dagger. The blade bit into the root, and the creature recoiled with a hiss like steam, black sap bubbling from the wound.
Kael was already moving. His sword flashed from its scabbard, the silver light a shocking, beautiful violence in the monochrome hellscape. He didn't wait for them to reach him. He became the aggressor.
He met the first Hound with a diagonal slash. The light sheared through its body of compacted ash, which offered no more resistance than smoke. The creature dissolved into a cloud of dissipating grey powder and a final, silent shriek that was felt rather than heard.
The second Hound leaped at him from the side. Kael's shield flared into existence, and the creature impaled itself upon the solid light. It thrashed for a moment, its form trying to corrupt the pure energy, before it too unraveled into nothingness.
The third, the one Elian had wounded, turned to flee back into the ash. Justice, as Theron defined it, was not lenient. Kael pointed his sword, and a thin, precise beam of silver light lanced out, piercing the creature between what would have been its shoulder blades. It froze, then collapsed into a heap of inert dust.
As the last Hound fell, the silver light from Kael's blade did not immediately fade. Instead, it pulsed, washing over the immediate area. And for a single, breathtaking moment, the lie was stripped away.
The grey ash beneath their feet became rich, dark soil. The skeletal trees were whole and strong, their branches heavy with green leaves that rustled in a warm, clean breeze. The scent of pine and damp earth was overwhelming. They stood in a vibrant, sun-dappled glade, a perfect memory of the forest that was.
Then the light receded, and the illusion shattered. The world snapped back to grey, dead, and silent. The glimpse of what had been lost was a more profound blow than the horror of what was.
"The land remembers," Elian whispered, his voice filled with a painful wonder. "Even here, at the heart of the blight, the memory of life persists. Your power doesn't just destroy the corruption... it momentarily restores the truth."
Kael stared at the spot where the vibrant glade had been, his heart aching. The weight of the carving in his pouch seemed to double. He had not just killed a queen; he had murdered a forest.
A sharp whistle, a clear, living sound, cut through the silence.
Both men spun. Standing on the crest of a small ridge of petrified wood was a figure. She was clad in patched leathers the color of dust and shadow, a grey cloak hood pulled up against the falling ash. In her hands was a short, sturdy bow, an arrow nocked but not drawn. Her face was mostly hidden, but her eyes, sharp and the color of weathered steel, were fixed on them, assessing, wary, and utterly devoid of fear.
"You took your time with the Hounds," the woman said, her voice low and raspy, but clear. "Make less noise. Or better yet, turn around. The Weald doesn't need more corpses."
Elian took a careful step forward, his hands open and visible. "We are not here to die. We are here to find the source of this."
The woman's gaze flicked to Kael, lingering on the sword now sheathed at his hip. "That light. I saw it from the ridge. It's... different." Her tone was not accusatory, but deeply curious. "You're not one of Lysander's. Their light is softer. It doesn't... burn the eyes."
"I am what the Weald requires," Kael answered, his voice echoing the grim stillness of the place.
A faint, grim smile touched the woman's lips, visible below the edge of her hood. "A bold claim." She lowered her bow slightly. "I am Lyra. Scout of Last Hope. It's the only settlement still standing within a day's march of this hell. If you're determined to throw your lives away, you might as well do it with a hot meal in your belly and some marginally useful information in your heads. Follow me. And step where I step. The ground isn't always... stable."
She turned without another word, expecting them to follow.
Elian looked at Kael, a question in his eyes. This was an unforeseen variable. An opportunity, or a trap?
Kael watched the scout's retreating form. She moved through the blighted landscape with a feral grace, as much a part of it as the ash and the twisted trees. She was a survivor. And survivors knew things scholars in libraries did not.
He gave a single, sharp nod. The path to Corvus was not on any map. It was a trail of whispers and desperation. This scout, Lyra, was the first signpost.
Without a word, they fell in behind her, their footsteps silent in the ash, three living souls in a world of the dead, walking deeper into the heart of the long, grey night.