Chapter 93: Strange Fog
The Dead Lands had no birds.
That was the first thing Charon noticed when they made camp that night. No distant chirps, no flapping wings overhead. Not even the occasional screech of a hawk. The silence was so total that every movement seemed ten times louder.
The wind whistled through the withered trees like a dying breath, brushing against their makeshift tent. Each gust sent dust swirling through the camp, coating their cloaks in a thin gray film. The fire, shielded by Darius’ new life magic, burned low and carefully, but even that couldn’t shake the cold that clung to their bones.
They hadn’t intended to stop, but the weariness beat out their fear.
Charon sat near the edge of the camp. One of his skeletons paced just outside the glow, his sword and shield held aloft. The quiet thuds of his bony feet were comforting, reminding him that danger wasn’t quite there.
Annie was writing in a notebook, seated beside Red, who had her hood pulled low and her eyes closed. Liam snored lightly a few feet away, stretched across a rock like a man who’d never heard of discomfort.
’Lucky bastard. How the hell can he sleep at a time like this?’
Charon knew it would be smart to join him, to preserve his energy should the worst happen, but he was unable to.
Compared to everyone else, the land was less terrifying to him, yet their fear brushed off on him. Part of him felt comforted, even, by the security of the repetition.
Black and gray, gray and black. That is all the Dead Lands offered.
Emerius was sharpening one of his blades with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound was crisp in the stillness. He was using a whetstone Darius produced from a satchel, along with some advice about "being prepared."
And Darius, as always, was watching. Not the trees, not the camp, them. His gaze wandered from person to person like he was measuring some invisible scale.