The taste of death lingered on Soren's tongue as he emerged from the tunnels behind Mira, a metallic tang that no amount of water seemed to wash away.
Wastes' dust clung to their cloaks, pale as bone and twice as stubborn, working its way into every crease and fold despite their efforts to shake it free.
The journey back had been conducted mostly in silence, their footsteps echoing through ancient passageways while the weight of what he'd done settled around his shoulders like an invisible cloak.
The familiar blue-green light of the Veiled Hand's sanctuary greeted them, somehow different now. Or perhaps he was the one who had changed.
"This way," Mira said, her first words in hours. "He's waiting."
As they moved through the corridors, Soren noticed the subtle shift in atmosphere. Conversations died as they passed, replaced by whispers that followed in their wake.
