The corrupted forest was unnervingly silent. No wind, no rustling leaves, only the faint crackling of dying magic still clinging to the runes seared into the ground. The battle had ended, but the air still held the weight of something unfinished, something unresolved. The silence wasn't natural—it pressed against Kael's ears like a thick, suffocating shroud. The forest was holding its breath.
Kael stood in the center of what had once been Seyrik's ritual site, staring at the scorched remnants of the creatures they had just fought. The ground was scarred and twisted, dark veins of residual energy still pulsing faintly beneath the surface, like a wound that refused to close. The soil here wasn't just burned—it was tainted. He could feel it under his boots, a strange, lingering vibration that hummed up his legs like the dying echoes of something that shouldn't be.
