The mist clung to Damien's skin like cold fingers, thick and suffocating as he stepped onto the shore. The ruins of the Dead Isles stretched before them, crumbling towers and shattered bridges rising from the blackened stone. No wind blew, no birds called, and the ocean itself seemed unnaturally still. The silence was wrong. Too deep. Too consuming. As if sound itself had been swallowed.
Carys disembarked behind him, boots crunching against gravel as she scanned the ruins with a wary gaze. "This place is cursed," she muttered. "You can feel it in the air."
Erynn knelt beside a broken pillar, running her gloved fingers across the faded carvings etched into the stone. The symbols were unlike anything Damien had ever seen—twisting, interwoven patterns that seemed to shift under the dim light. "This wasn't built by any kingdom we know," she murmured. "This is older."
Selene exhaled sharply. "Older than what?"