The wind carried the scent of burnt resin and old prayers. Morning crept up the valley like something half-dead — pale and limping, its light sickly against the black stone.
Shitsubo stood before what used to be the eastern gate of an abandoned settlement. It was hard to call it a city anymore; it was more like a fossil of one. Houses gutted by the rift's quake. Windows empty. Streets split like dry skin. The kind of place where even echoes were afraid to come back.
The zealots followed him in silence, about a dozen of them now. They wore his mark on their wrists — the open wound sigil — and spoke in low tones that sounded more like ritual than conversation. Behind them, Juro and the others lagged, moving with caution, their weapons drawn, their trust dwindling by the hour.
Genji was the first to speak, her voice small under the weight of it all. "You sure this place is safe?"
