Rocks slowly fell from the ridgelines of the Syr's land as if the earth above was losing patience with what was happening below it.
Wind shuffled between the gaps of the stone formations, carrying the rotting smell of flesh, bones, and burning metal.
Two Serakels moved in loose procession, their snake tails dragging behind them and leaving thin grooves in the gold-dusted ground. Between them, An Lang's stomach pushed against the fabric of his combat vest as he swayed on his feet like a drunk man.
His war discs shifted at his back with every wobble he made, but he didn't reach for them as his eyes remained locked on the slabs of dark meat the leading Serakel was carrying.
An Lang's nostrils flared when a thin line of saliva formed at the corner of his parted lips, while the smell drifted to him the moment they stopped moving.
The Serakels stopped before three Syrs who stood there with their seven-fingered hands resting on the handles of burning axes.
