The transition to the wild side of Dragos was not marked by gates or declarations. There was no border in the way civilized worlds liked to draw them. The change announced itself through atmosphere, through pressure, through the way the land stopped pretending it cared whether you survived.
Heat rose in uneven waves from fractured obsidian plains that stretched to the horizon. Rivers of slow-moving magma carved glowing veins through the terrain, illuminating jagged silhouettes of stone and bone alike.
The sky burned a deeper red here, clouds heavy with ash and sparks drifting like embers that never cooled. The air itself carried weight, dense with fire Essence that pressed against the skin instead of flowing gently around it.
There were cities in the distance. Dense clusters of brutal architecture rose near volcanic ridges, towers fused directly into blackened rock, bridges spanning lava flows without guardrails.
