The journey deeper into the Dragon Lands was no longer a march; it was a descent into an active oven.
As the Iron-Horse Mark II rolled farther into the canyon, the temperature didn't rise linearly; it spiked with every mile they covered.
The air outside grew so oppressive that the red rocks themselves seemed to sweat, shimmering with a violent, mirage-like distortion that bent the light.
Inside the carriage, the atmosphere was stifling. The cooling runes etched into the chassis, which had been humming softly before, were now glowing a frantic white-hot. They buzzed angrily, fighting a losing battle against the ambient temperature of the domain they were trespassing in.
"It's… unnaturally hot," Lyra gasped, leaning her head back against the seat. She was fanning herself with a large leaf she had conjured from wind mana, but even the conjured air felt like the breath of a furnace.
