The wind in the Reach never truly blew—just whispered.
Between twisted branches and long-dead roots, it carried echoes of forgotten screams and prayers swallowed by stone.
Ian moved through the bone-colored woods, eyes sharp, soul heavy.
This place didn't just want him dead.
It wanted him broken.
His path twisted deeper into the Reach, where sunlight no longer filtered down and even shadows seemed to bleed. Still, he pressed forward, his steps guided not by sight but by certainty.
He already knew what waited at the heart of this place. Knew what had to be done.
To leave the Reach, the books had said, you must not just survive. You must proof yourself.
He whispered the name under his breath like a curse.
"The Heart of Ruin."
It wasn't a metaphor.
At the deepest pit of the First Reach, past gnarled trees and rivers of marrow, lay a broken altar carved from obsidian and bone.
Beneath it: molten bone. Cursed ground. Ruin soaked into every grain of stone.
