The ash crunched beneath their boots, a dry, lifeless sound that echoed too loudly in the dead zone surrounding Moira's spire.
Stepping past the treeline and into the corrupted clearing felt like crossing an invisible threshold. The ambient temperature plummeted, and the air grew thin, smelling sharply of sulfur and rotting paper. The towering spire of petrified wood and dark, writhing vines loomed over them, casting a long, jagged shadow that seemed to swallow the weak morning light.
Gazelle took another step, but her boot caught on a hidden root beneath the ash. She stumbled.
Raven's arm was around her waist in a fraction of a second, his grip an iron band of security. "Steady," he murmured, his eyes sweeping the desolate perimeter. "We are exposed here."
"I'm fine," Gazelle lied, her voice barely a whisper.
