Elarwyn had never felt this unnervingly silent. Usually, the great boughs of this city would vibrate with the rhythmic footsteps of thousands of workers and the constant, musical babble of irrigation water flowing through elevated wooden canals. But that afternoon, the only sound was the wind—a low, mournful whistle that cut through the withered branches, carrying a heavy, musty odor that stuck to the back of the throat.
Dayat stood at "Ground Zero" of the Hanging Fields, a vast expanse that now resembled a mass grave for vegetation. The Manaferum Sativa, which should have towered with golden husks of energy, was reduced to brittle, blackened stalks. Whenever a gust of wind passed, these husks shattered into fine, dark dust, scattering like ashes over a tomb.
"This soil isn't just dry, Dola. It's... it's devoid of life entirely," Dayat murmured.
