The transition from the industrial plains to the Weeping Iron-Groves was marked by a sound that did not belong in nature. It was a rhythmic, metallic chiming. Thousands of serrated iron leaves knocked against one another in the biting wind. As Vane stepped past the first line of rusted, petrified trunks, the temperature dropped ten degrees. The air here did not just smell like soot anymore. It carried the heavy, sweet, and dangerous scent of liquid mercury.
Vane adjusted the weight on his shoulder. Mara was stirring. Her breath hitched as the sedative effect of the pressure-point strike began to fade. Beside him, Valerica walked with her hand hovering near the hilt of her weapon. She had not spoken since they reached the treeline. Her eyes scanned the dark, tangled canopy with a mixture of professional focus and lingering resentment.
