The air in Rivenmoor was a punch to the gut. Not the crisp, clean mountain air Auren remembered from pilgrimages with his father, but thick, acrid smoke. It stung his eyes, burned his throat, and clawed at the back of his mind. Nyrix, usually stoic, let out a low rumble of displeasure beneath him, her obsidian scales reflecting the smoldering ruins below like fractured mirrors.
This was no holy city. This was a pyre.
He guided Nyrix down, her powerful wings beating the smoke-laden air. The city, once famed for its towering temples and the perpetual incense of devotion, was now little more than skeletal remains. Ash fell like black snow. The silence, where hymns once echoed, was broken only by the mournful wind and the distant cries of the wounded.
