Heavy, violent rain lashed the borders of The Wailing Woods, turning the ancient mossy floor into a treacherous slurry of slick mud and rotting leaves. The air was a suffocating cocktail of smells—the sharp, lingering sting of sulfur from the forest's heart, the metallic tang of damp earth, and the scent of cold iron.
Dayat pressed on, his boots squelching with every heavy step. His left hand was clamped tight around Dola's—his grip so intense it was a silent prayer for her to stay real, to stay beside him. His right hand, however, remained deathly cold. It was a phantom sensation, a residue of the weaponized blueprints The Maiden had scorched into his mind. He felt as if his arm was no longer made of flesh, but of high-tensile steel and cold logic.
