Verbal Sparring

The gravel grated beneath Alex's boots with each step, a steady crunch that marked their slow departure from the lush serenity of the botanical garden.

Behind him, the air still carried the lingering scent of dew-drenched petals and sun-warmed earth, but ahead, it shifted, growing heavier, muskier.

The rich perfume of flowers gave way to the pungent tang of animals: fur, damp straw, and the underlying sharpness of manure.

It wasn't unpleasant exactly, just jarring in contrast, like stepping from a painting into something real and raw.

Around them, the path narrowed between hedges now rougher and less manicured.

The polished beauty of the front gardens gave way to something more utilitarian, rows of wooden fences, storage sheds tucked beneath sloping roofs, and a long barn-like structure looming ahead with its doors flung wide.

Here, the Hold breathed with a different rhythm.