The silence didn't fade.
It thickened.
Raen stood at the edge of the Shardgrave, where the wind didn't howl but whispered with a thousand stolen voices. The land around him was jagged and wrong, a geometry that bent inwards, like the world was remembering its own trauma. Behind him, Lyra gasped, clutching the sigil that pulsed against her palm.
"You feel that?" she asked. Her voice trembled.
Raen nodded once.
"It's not just death. It's... memory."
They had followed the bleeding trail of the dead godmarked through the Ebon Spine, expecting a confrontation. Instead, they found a wound in the world—a chasm bleeding time and sorrow.
Raen stepped forward. With each movement, his foot sunk slightly into the ash, though there was no fire, no heat. Only cold that cut.
The further he walked, the louder the silence became.
Then it broke.
A scream.
But not in the air.
In his bones.
