Morning never came proper.
Just a pale glow through the clouds, enough to call it dawn. The wind that blew through the ravine no longer carried frost but ash—fine, grey, clinging to the edges of their cloaks and lashes. Tomas cursed as he packed, brushing dust from his boots for the third time.
"Smells like something burned and never stopped," he muttered.
Mira stood near the edge, peering through the low mist. "It's the ash wind. Once it starts, it doesn't stop until it finds what it wants."
Leon tightened his gloves. "Then we don't give it a reason."
They left the hollow behind, ascending toward the distant silhouette. The path bent, narrow and slick with old moss, curling like a scar along the wall of the ravine. The Ash Court loomed higher now—a fortress of broken towers and jagged stone, burned black and grey as if fire had once tried to swallow it whole.
No banners.
No lights.
Only silence.
