The march through the Weeping Iron-Groves was a grinding exercise in frustration. Captain Kaelen led the formation with a poise that felt entirely out of place among the rusted, twisted trunks of the petrified forest. Behind him, the six Knights of the Third Division moved in a tight, silver-plated wedge. Their heavy boots crunched through the metallic brush with a sound like shattering glass. Gareth walked in the center, flanked by the massive presence of Captain Varkas.
The air was thick with the scent of mercury. It was a sweet, heavy smell that seemed to coat the inside of the throat with every breath. Kaelen stopped at the edge of a jagged ridge, his eyes narrowed as he adjusted the mana-sensor on his gauntlet. The needle was spinning. The interference from the mercury-rich soil was a constant irritant.
