For three agonizing hours, the column of forty-seven refugees moved through the spectral hush of the forest like a ghost procession.
The air within Elara's dome remained sweet and artificial, contrasting sharply with the dead, mana-starved void just inches beyond the golden shimmer. Every breath taken inside the sphere was a testament to Elara's waning stamina. Sweat had soaked through the back of her tunic, and her pale hands trembled continuously around the smooth wooden shaft of her wand. Yet, she kept her posture straight, her golden eyes fixed on the back of Kyle's head as he led them through the grey ash.
Beside Kyle, Yua walked with the light, dangerous grace of a hunting panther. Her fingers remained tightly interwoven with his, her cool skin a grounded anchor against the unnatural heat pulsing off the strange red fruits hanging above.
