The first leap off the ridge took them into a world of suffocating, blinding heat.
Below, the Black River churned like a serpent made of liquid tar, belching thick plumes of dark smoke that hit the outer curve of Elara's light barrier like heavy grease. The acidic vapors hissed violently against the golden magic, eating away at the boundary and forcing Elara to scream through her gritted teeth as she pushed her remaining mana to its absolute limit to keep the air breathable.
Kyle slammed down onto the first obsidian stone with two children tucked under his left arm and Marcus's teenage grandson gripped tight in his right hand.
The stone—a jagged slab of volcanic glass no wider than a dining table—was slick with black condensation. The moment his shadow-infused boots hit the wet surface, his feet began to slide toward the boiling black liquid.
