Landing in the Badlands

The sled had left them, disappearing over the churning waves in a streak of foam and shimmering scales. The absence of the Water Drake was stark, a severed connection to the relative safety of the ocean. Now, there was only the Badlands—raw and oppressive, daring them to step deeper.

The air itself seemed alive. Each breath burned, not just from the heat, but from the weight of something unseen that pressed against their chests. The horizon was a bleeding wound, rivers of molten rock carving jagged scars into the land, their light pulsating like the breath of a slumbering titan.

James hesitated as his boots touched the brittle, heat-cracked earth. It wasn't just the overwhelming environment—it was the sensation that they didn't belong here. That no one did.