Chapter 287
The deserted lands that had stretched endlessly earlier were nothing more than a wasteland of cracked earth and twisted trees clawing at a sky choked with ash.
For days, they'd trudged through this forsaken place, their boots crunching over bones and their lungs burning with sulfur.
So, suddenly seeing such a scene involuntarily made him suspicious.
Oliver inhaled deeply, testing the air. It was sweet, almost cloying, lacking the bitter tang of ash he'd grown accustomed to. A faint miasma lingered beneath it, not a scent but a feeling—a prickling on his skin, a whisper of wrongness. He glanced at Agnes, who was still gazing at the village with wide-eyed wonder.
Even her breath seemed to ease in this air, her shoulders losing their usual tension, as if the village itself was lulling her into comfort.
"Stay close," he said, his voice low but firm. "This place isn't what it seems."
