The descent into the vast valley beneath the subterranean waterfall was a silent, grueling ordeal that pushed every member of their small group to the absolute brink of human endurance.
With Elara unconscious, Marcus and two of the stronger male refugees took turns carrying her frail body across the narrow, jagged basalt ledge that spiraled down the damp cliff face. The mist rising from the valley floor was thick, pale white, and strangely sticky, clinging to their clothing and skin like a wet shroud. Every time a stray drift of the vapor touched the outer edge of the dying light barrier, it made a terrifying, low sizzling sound, slowly eroding the golden magic bit by bit.
Kyle walked at the very front of the line, his left hand holding Yua's securely, their fingers interwoven in a tight, protective grip. His right hand remained low, his shadow-infused boots treading softly over the slick, bone-littered stone path.
