The road stretched long and uneven before them, a narrow ribbon of dirt carved between sprawling woods. Vartha's steady gait kept the carriage rocking in a gentle rhythm, though Luke often had to brace himself when the wheels bit too deeply into a rut. Ilyrana, seated beside him, was quiet for much of the morning, her eyes forever scanning the landscape as though she alone could see what lay hidden beneath the mundane surface.
It was Luke who first noticed the shift. At first, it was subtle—an occasional tree with leaves browned far earlier than the season demanded, branches curling like brittle fingers. But the further they travelled, the more undeniable it became. The once-vibrant green canopy began to show a sickly, thinning appearance. Some trees stood skeletal, stripped of life as if drained by unseen hands. Their trunks leaned in unnatural ways, their bark cracked and grey, giving the impression of wounds left unhealed.
