Oblong exhaled slowly and pointed past the luminous land. Toward the valley. And I—I froze. Because there weren't a few stones. There weren't dozens. There were thousands.
The valley below shimmered unnaturally, jagged black crystals embedded into the earth like a disease. Dark mana pulsed in slow, sick rhythms, the ground breathing like something alive. The air above them warped, shadows stretching wrong, whispering without sound.
Viking swore under his breath. "What," I whispered, "is that."
Oblong's voice dropped. No jokes now. No sarcasm. "Dark mana stones," he said. "Raw. Untamed. Ancient."
Chubby's form tensed. "That many…"
Oblong nodded. "More than enough to summon the dark lord, his minions and the dead."
Silence. The words settled like frost in my lungs. "The dark lord…The dead," I repeated.
"Yes," Oblong said quietly. "Not spirits. Not echoes. Corpses. Souls ripped back into vessels."
I felt cold. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with Viking.
