The air in the Fifth Layer reeked of decay and broken promises. Ash clung to their cloaks. The earth beneath their boots pulsed like a dying heart, thick with the memory of things better left unremembered. Ashring's folk moved slow, every step a negotiation with the shadows that slipped just beyond sight.
Corun led. His stride steady, unyielding. Mera followed close, her face carved from stone. Raerin, Jonan, and Kedes brought up the rear, each dragging their own silent grief.
Deeper they go, and reality began to twist about them. The walls of the spire oozed with primeval carvings, sigils that seemed to ripple when looked at outside the periphery of one's vision. A faint, unidentifiable glow clung to the stone, the silence tightened against them broken only by the slow trickle of unseen trickling water.
