The rowboats cut silently through the fog-choked waters as Elara led a small team toward the shore of the Isle of Echoes. Every stroke of the oars seemed to disturb the mist, sending tendrils of vapor curling away like fingers retreating into the depths. The air was cold, colder than it had any right to be, and with every breath, Elara felt the weight of the island pressing down on them.
Lyra sat across from her, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, eyes scanning the thick mist around them. Doran was at the back of the boat, silent and brooding, his gaze locked on the approaching shoreline. The others—seasoned sailors and warriors alike—said nothing, their faces drawn and tense.
