The deafening thud of the iron doors shutting behind us reverberated through the barren, jagged earth, sending a violent shockwave through my boots.
Then came the silence.
It wasn't the peaceful, insulated quiet of the sunken garden, but a heavy, suffocating stillness that smelled of old copper, sulfur, and frozen ash. The air was frigid, cutting through the thin fabric of my crimson velvet gown like invisible glass shards, while Elara's soft, terrified panting echoed beside me in the dim twilight.
Above us, there was no moon—only a swirling, bruised vortex of indigo and bruised crimson clouds that cast an unearthly, flickering light across the landscape. Vael'ethor stretched endlessly in every direction: a desolate wasteland of towering obsidian spires, cracked salt flats, and deep, yawning chasms that bled faint purple steam into the frozen air.
