The wind of the steppe, crusted with salt, had no respect for titles. It swept over the barren shrubs, carrying with it the throat-burning scent of charred juniper trees and the cold, metallic taste of approaching rain.
Tair dragged his right leg across the hard gravel. Scrape. Scrape. The iron brace fitted beneath his boot left a rough, uncompromising mark in the earth—a mark belonging neither to a man nor an animal, the trail of something caught between the two.
His right arm hung lifelessly inside his wool cloak, an inert weight pressing against his ribs like a dead burden.
A few steps ahead, Azhred walked with the effortless grace of a hunter's falcon. The young leader of the Drazhan clan was not wearing heavy armor today; he wore only a travel-worn quilted silk tunic embroidered with silver. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his curved sword. He did not look back, but every line of his shoulders betrayed his complete awareness of the crippled ghost following behind him.
Between them walked a single, large-boned packhorse, loaded with waterskins, dried mutton, and two rolled felt blankets.
"The road to Elyaran is nothing but three hundred fersakhs of dust and silence, Tair," Azhred said, his voice carrying clearly through the howling wind without the slightest sign of strain. "And with that leg, you walk as though you're trying to dig your own grave."
Tair did not raise his head. His breathing was shallow and rasping, a dry, scraping sound striking against his shattered throat. He adjusted the obsidian ring on his left thumb, feeling the faint, icy pulse of the system beating beneath his skin like an insect trapped underneath it.
SYSTEM NOTICE // CHRONO-ANCHOR
Neural Cost: 14%
Temporal Anomaly Status: STABLE