The wind howled through the forest like a warning from the gods themselves.
Nyssa moved through the mist, her feet bare, her cloak soaked with dew and ash. The moon hung low and bruised, bleeding light over the ancient trees. She could hear whispers, low, haunting voices that came not from the living but from the dead.
Each step she took sank deeper into the soft earth, pulling her closer to the thin veil that separated the mortal world from the realm of spirits.
Her breath came in shallow gasps. She had been walking for days, guided only by instinct and desperation.
The war between Liora and Gonzalo had devoured everything she'd known. The land was drenched in blood, the rivers tainted, the wolves restless. Every sunrise seemed to bring another curse, another death.
And Nyssa had had enough.
