The disciples were quieter now. Hardened.
Most had stopped talking about the hallucinations, though now and then, the topic resurfaced in hushed tones—always with that same look of uncertainty. Was it real? Was it magic? A trial?
None had seen the owl.
None remembered it.
Only Han Yu had heard it speak.
As the weeks passed, they crossed into the southern reaches of the continent.
On the thirty-first day after leaving the forest, their vanguard crested a plateau and finally laid eyes on their intermediate destination—Sunken Ember Outpost, the halfway point before they would descend into the vast Southern Marshes.
It was a fortress built atop a sunken basalt shelf, half its walls buried beneath the sediment, with lanterns always burning and tall brass towers built to ward off the foul marsh air.
Elders called for a halt as cheers broke out among the disciples.
It was the first true milestone since they'd left the sect's domain.
