The Dead Lands had no birds.
That was the first thing Charon noticed when they made camp that night. No distant chirps, no flapping wings overhead. Not even the occasional screech of a hawk. The silence was so total that every movement seemed ten times louder.
The wind whistled through the withered trees like a dying breath, brushing against their makeshift tent. Each gust sent dust swirling through the camp, coating their cloaks in a thin gray film. The fire, shielded by Darius' new life magic, burned low and carefully, but even that couldn't shake the cold that clung to their bones.
They hadn't intended to stop, but the weariness beat out their fear.
Charon sat near the edge of the camp. One of his skeletons paced just outside the glow, his sword and shield held aloft. The quiet thuds of his bony feet were comforting, reminding him that danger wasn't quite there.
