The descent from the Feline Spire was a quiet, methodical walk. Sol moved with the fluid, silent grace, his Void-Oak spear resting casually over his shoulder. Despite the outward calm of his posture, his internal state was a hyper-focused, calculating engine.
The atmosphere in the lower rings of the Veynar settlement had transformed completely. The joyous, vibrant celebration from the night before had been violently snuffed out by the arrival of the Zharun. Vanguard warriors stood in tight, tense clusters near the armories, their hands resting on the hilts of their bone-swords.
Women and children had been ushered indoors, the heavy wooden shutters of their huts closed tight against the suffocating, rotting gray aura that seemed to be seeped outwards.
Sol navigated the winding paths, heading directly for the massive, hollowed-out base of the Great Heartwood.
