The desert stretched before them in an endless expanse of shifting dunes and jagged rock formations. The Spire loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the burning sky, its presence both a beacon and a warning.
Elias adjusted the harp’s strap over his shoulder, the instrument’s weight growing heavier with each step. The encounter with Arvad still lingered in his mind—his words, his warnings, the way he had spoken about the harp as if it were a living thing with its own will.
Joran was the first to break the silence. “Do you believe him?”
Elias hesitated. “I don’t know. But what he said about the harp… I’ve felt it. When I played it against the sentinel, it wasn’t just sound—it was something more. It moved through me, like it had a will of its own.”
Joran’s jaw tightened. “That’s exactly what worries me.”