Morning in Elarwyn did not arrive with the usual melodic greeting of the forest birds or the gentle, pearlescent glow of the Light-Blooms. Instead, the dawn felt heavy, draped in a stifling, grey pallor that seemed to suck the color out of the world. A bitter, metallic aroma—sharp and unsettling—seeped through the narrow gaps of the guesthouse windows, clinging to the back of the throat like a bad premonition.
Dayat woke up with a strange, jarring sense of alertness. The lingering peace from the previous night on the Zenith Branch was gone, evaporated like mist in a furnace. The moment his eyes snapped open, the sight before him obliterated the last remnants of comfort.
