The world behind them was a furnace, a hungry maw of fire devouring the remnants of a peaceful memory.
Dayat stood at the crest of the hill that marked the border between Lamping Village and the untamed wilderness of the East. The dawn wind howled, sharp and biting, carrying with it the bitter scent of scorched wheat and the lingering acrid tang of ammonia from explosive mana. On his palm, the bloodstain from Lyrielle had dried, turning a dull, haunting russet. Dayat stared at the stain for a few silent seconds before slowly curling his hand into a fist so tight his knuckles cracked like dry wood.
